The Midnight Masque
by Blufinger
Summary: Entangled in a dark curse, Arya is trapped behind the crimson banners of the Empire - but who is the real Emperor? During the eternal midnight, she hears music: of love, treachery and delusion as Eragon turns war to bloodthirsty carnage to 'save' her. MxA
1. The Blonde Puppeteer

Hey, welcome to the gang! Get yourself comfortable, relax, sit back - oh, and there's still time to grab a coke before the main feature starts!

**Title: **The Midnight Masque

**Summary: **In a world of black and white, lightning in the night sky; of good and evil, fairy tales for children - where do the real people fit in? The bland, blasé catchline is the same: A beautiful princess is kidnapped, locked in a tower, and is rescued by her valiant prince. The wheels of war are stopped for pitiful fancy, time and time again.

Is it really so? What of the real villains? The misfits. The forgotten ones. The hated. Behind the wrong coloured tunic, the wrong coloured mask, they embrace the dance, frenzied, mad, losing themselves in something beautiful and something terrible, something disgusting. Their hours are numbered. The spell is nearly broken. But the masquerade will go on - until midnight falls.

They will not wait until the clock strikes Thirteen.

**Warnings: Whilst this is technically rated** **T, there is violence, sex, and profanity in this fic. **(Don't say I didn't warn you).

Pairings are... not very canon at all. Some alternate character re-interetation, and I play with them and go all over the shop with it. The canonballs in this fic don't like to play with Mr. Paolini's laws of physics - I plan on heavily diverting and playing with canon in terms of backstory, specifically The Fall of The Riders, although everything recent stays the same. This is post-Brisingr, but then again, everyone read's Book III now.

**Disclaimer: **Characters, setting, etc. belongs to Mr Paolini over in the corner, not me, blah blah blah... you guys know how this goes, right? I'm not going to repeat this at the beginning of each and every chapter, as you know the characters technically aren't mine.

Without further ado!

**I: **The Blonde Puppeteer**  
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_"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen." - George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four._

* * *

><p>The throne room, he insisted, be any other colour except black.<p>

So it wasn't.

The floor – solid marble, was grey. Chequerboard, to be precise – dark grey and light grey. Classy – he had thought at the time. A noble never did do something a troublesome as point their nose at the floor, after all. The symbolism would be lost on them. Insert ironic laugh.

Bland – he had thought a few seconds ago. So the sheer grey was wiped away, with fluff and pomp and ostentation. A royal colour – Red. As expected of a gold-trimmed 40ft rug. Saved cleaning the blood, at any rate.

He also insisted on windows. Large, vast, arches of glass coloured in smoky purples, grassy greens, and opulent oranges in a children's picture show display. It was a throne room, he mused, not a torture chamber. Not a bloodied and rusting chain in sight.

Then the ceiling – the ceiling! Vast, hulking pillars once stood in their way; fat and fusty they were, in heaving bulk; they wrestled the sky. They groaned and moaned about it, of course. Whiny bastards. Such, ahem, _immense_ pillars had the words 'POWER' and 'MIGHT' and 'ATTENTION SEEKING' scrawled all over them. No, no. The pillars had to go. And instead, the ceiling would be painted, and instead those delicate, swirling intricate carvings traced in the sky would never be left in a sad, forgotten, stone grey. Painted blue, of course – the colour of what the ceiling could only dream to be.

It was beautiful, in its own disorganised way. That was to be a must. Candles would be of different length, not the same, and never, ever black. Or always black – but _only_ in irony. Delicate dragoness sculptures, courtesy of Lord Burke, also, were to be painted by his seven year old nephew, not himself. Oh, how glorious it was to see! – Lord Burke's spluttered and stifled reaction, that was.

Yes, indeed, it was a beautiful room. It represented everything Galbatorix loathed in the world.

It was still a throne room, you see. However stupidly it was painted, splattered, spat on, it was still a throne room. That wouldn't change. Nor would the tacit – or plain oblivious – flattery from various people with pointlessly long titles praising his (ridiculous) taste. Therefore Galbatorix generally preferred his study. Quieter, for one. It was positively mundane, for two. To watch a general attempt to cough up a compliment on his collection of banned, burnt, and delirious books was always amusing.

Today, however, was different.

Galbatorix exclaimed it to the chambermaid – mad, bonkers, _unheard of_, for a King of all people, to speak to their class like _that_; probably an insult, a mockery, of us peasants, of us lower classes, those ghastly nobles, so bloody damn superior – as he woke.

The servants, pale and stony-faced this particular morning – but when were they not? –, always considered such an action an omen. For good reason, too. It meant Galbatorix was going to be in the throne room. It meant Murtagh was going to be in an absolutely foul mood. It meant the breaking of routine; it meant the braking of the cart that kept them going, kept them, the servants, the soldiers, and all those damned to unhappy lives and early deaths, ticking along like clockwork puppets.

Nevertheless. Galbatorix occasionally had to be cruel. Hard times, eh? He was going to be less cruel than usual – the servants would at least be spared the glacial glare of his second-in-command. This was something he was going to do by himself. By himself!

"Good morning gentleman!" he squealed. It echoed. Of course, there were other no men, especially _gentle_men, brooding in the ambience of the throne room today. Just. Him. He grinned. It was a manic, frantic grin. Galbatorix spent most of his time smiling – icily, sardonically, even in genuine laughter, but never so excitedly. His eyes, large blue sunken bulbs, usually looking gloomily beyond, looked – of all things – animated. It was... refreshing. _To work!_

A map was laid in front of him, and several eccentric figurines, on a nonsensically long mahogany table. Galbatorix wasn't as unremarkable to have a detailed, surveyed, army-style map presented to him by some upstart geographer. Nor was he as so utterly _cliché_ to have a chessboard. This wasn't a map for war, of course. Grin.

It was his stage. Another smile, more pensive, struck his face. _And here we have the cast list. _His fingers traced around the assorted figures... a broken twig... a fairy statue... an exotic feather... a discarded tobacco pipe... _farmboy hero; rebellious princess; ambitious queen-to-be; the dead mentor. _Reduced to clichés, their secrets and delusions to tatters, they were little more than recycled cardboard puppets. _His puppets, _he insisted. There was nothing remotely human, or indeed, humane about any of them, as far as he was concerned.

He picked up the 'puppet' of current interest. Half a chess piece – a broken black knight – with a white ribbon tied around the base. Tied to Uru'baen, he thought with a spare smirk. The original plan was to have him, the broken black knight, find the farm boy hero. Tentative, strained reunion, filled with hatred. Torturous capture. Agonizing, bitter, realisation – oh, it would have been so _wonderful _to witness. Reduced, when all the fancy titles and trinkets, are taken away, to what he really was: an ignorant, crying boy. _Humanity_, he mused, _really means nothing in war._

Galbatorix picked up the broken twig. The original plan hadn't exactly played out as it should. Twice, he'd tried to capture him. Twice, he'd failed. _Some slight improvisation going on backstage, eh?_ He frowned, and stroked his chin, blowing a stray golden lock of hair out of his view. He twisted the twig gently between a forefinger and a thumb absently, peering over the map. _But_, he thought, picking up another stray piece on the board, covered in dust, so deplorable it was left mostly untouched, _I can use you yet_. He decided, yes, indeed, this change of plan would work – he scraped a few other pieces away as, discards, dead men.

_It would have been an anti-climax; after all –_ "Wouldn't it have been?" he shrieked without meaning, his voice rattling, hurtling out of gear. Silence was the answer.

Sighing, he hid a frown behind another grin. If there was one thing Galbatorix hated, it was a dry, lacklustre performance.

"I really am the worst of the lot, aren't I?" he chuckled. He placed the figurines he'd been holding down, before sweeping the whole board onto the floor with a flick of a hand. The clatter echoed; breaking the silence. _I really am the worst..._

Galbatorix smiled again – and this time, it was frightening.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I do love Galby's point of view. Hopefully he comes across as eccentric enough, and clichéd enough. Oh yes, you'll eventually see! And please review guys! Much appreciated for you reading.


	2. Desert Worms

**II: **Desert Worms

_"Good Morning, Worm, yer Honour..." - The Trial, Pink Floyd._

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><p>The morning was harsh, still. No wind. Frost lingered, grasping to the shadows, glistening, spitefully. Everything else was in heavy, heavy, light. It quivered, sticking to helmets, pouring down men's faces – glaring. Their steel skins were irksome, stuffy. <em>Stifling<em>. Gaunt horses – weary, weak, _absolutely useless_ – tried to tug them along, trembling in sweat, sinking further into their own tracks.

Nat hated this – everyone hated this – but Nat hated it more. _Morning Patrols._ He was sure of it. The bitter banter, black humour, and snide asides were lost on him. That's what made it bearable. Laughing. Especially at how _damn_ ridiculous it all was.

_Don't swear. Makes you less adorable_. Nat held in a grunt of disgust. He was a scraggly lad of just-under-sixteen, hollow-cheeked, with a constant, befuddling, wide-eyed peer from beneath his greasy mop. He had a tough enough time convincing the others of his age. This sort of _insolent reluctance_, he could recall his mother saying, chastising him at a much later date, made him seem even younger.

Reluctance, after all, was _his_ war. Forget fairy tales of magic and dragons and elves. Except they were real, now, weren't they? Oh.

Nat had first used magic six months ago. He'd hardly progressed, but that wasn't all that surprising. He was weak, mostly useless, and ran away from swords more than he picked them up. Still, this was inevitable. He had magic. The Varden were desperate for magicians. _And my parents happily gave me away. _It was expected of him, after all, to continue what the parents had started. To make the same mistakes, over and over again.

So he complied. Eventually. Bitterly. Reluctantly. The arguments started weeks before and lasted to the very end, until he was posted 'as far damn away as possible.' He missed his sister, but he didn't care – not then, anyway. He wanted to make a point. Pah. What point was there to make? Except the point of a sword rammed down his throat, of course. Just bickering. Endless, childish, trivial, _ridiculous _bickering.

He didn't like to laugh at it. It wasn't very funny to him.

"Stop _draggin'_ behind us Nat!" Nat looked up. He'd been blissfully oblivious to the never-ending dragon puns the other lads had been making during his ritual morning patrol melancholy. He held in a smile. _That was bloody awful, Jace, well done. _

"Hey! Runt! Don't be such a _draaaag _now, will ya?" Hicks was at it now too. Nat snickered. _Ridiculous._

"Very punny Hicks." It was the captain who looked up now. "Now shut yer trap."

Nathanial, Nat, or _Runt_, as he was referred to, sped up to trot alongside the rest of the patrol. Life, unfortunately, was life, and he hated it with a fiery passion right now. But he could make the best of it. He wasn't just a runt, but _their _Runt_._ He might have hated it, but he had a place. A home. That was enough to ask for, in times like this, wasn't it? Was it?

It was Nat noticed first.

It was Nat who was always the first to notice.

He was still _draggin'_ behind when he looked into the glaring sky.

_No._

He then started screaming. They all started running.

It was so scary. It was so frightening and scary. To know that the black _thing_ above them, was something so brutal, so bloodthirsty, so _medieval_. It wasn't human. It wasn't human at all, and Nathan was scared, he was very very scared. It wasn't like the other times, when you laughed at how stupid it was, to see someone's guts ripped out and watch someone else screaming, because that was unreal, and it wasn't happening to you, and there was so much red and so much shouting you didn't care.

_This_ was unreal.

When you saw a dragon, you knew you were dead. It didn't matter what colour your tunic was, or what banner you carried. You were _dead_.

Nat began to cry for his mother. He was still crying when he was ripped apart by a creature the same colour as his own blood that stained the earth.

Murtagh sighed. _I hate morning patrols_.

* * *

><p>There was, however, one advantage of Morning Patrols. This was it.<p>

Murtagh admitted it grudgingly, at first. But then again, that was Murtagh's attitude to most things. A nod of agreement; daggers for eyes. This especially applied to dragons.

Murtagh did not like dragons.

Well, used to. He did now, of course. But he used to hate them. How could he not? It should have been obvious, really. His _father_ had a dragon. It burnt people's homes. Killed them. Ripped their families in half. That sort of thing. The Butcher's Knife. It was a monster, of course, everyone knew _that_. Not a dragon. Or were Dragons just monsters now, were they? Murtagh didn't know, nor cared. Not something he troubled himself to think about. A book – _maybe_ _something by DeBlanc_ - was something he troubled himself to think about. People just never troubled to ask the _right_ questions.

Philosophy was beautiful. Books were beautiful. Thought was beautiful. They were forgotten things, lost in the banality of breeding and greed. Where was a philosopher in times of war? Their works would be torn to pieces. The same mistakes would be made. Again. And again. And again. Blah blah blah. War was a repetitive business, after all. It was irksome, tiring, really. But there would always be a stray piece, a spare page, a word. You couldn't destroy words with swords and sorcery.

Books, unlike dragons, he had always loved. Reliable things. Dragons, unsafe to say, weren't. Dragons, unsafe to say, weren't creators. They were destroyers. If it weren't for Dragons, Murtagh would never have existed, after all – existed, not lived. Murtagh had never lived. He hadn't asked for this. That was the _wrong_ kind of question. He hadn't asked it. He hadn't wanted it. He never would.

_Stop?_ It was a small, voice, suddenly surfacing into the cloud.

_I'm ranting again, aren't I? I should stop doing that. _Guilt, was the word on his tongue. _I should really stop doing that. It's not fair, and I keep ruining things like this and –_

This was cut off by what could only be described by a large, calming smile. Thorn couldn't speak yet, you see. Of course he couldn't, he was only three months old. He was just an oversized lizard, after all. If he did, it was stunted, broken sentences. Otherwise it was all pictures, all feelings. Murtagh didn't mind. Thorn simply didn't waste words.

Thorn began to hum contentedly. Yes, this is what made the day worth it.

_Flying_.

They soared together, alone. Through a canvas of cloud and endless, limitless blue, they painted their own trail, their own lines, twisting and twirling. It was silent today: no wind. That, Murtagh found phenomenal. The clatter and chatter of the city had awoken him when he was born, and would stay by him until he died. But up here, in the sky, there wasn't any of that. It was empty.

It was incredible.

Thorn loved it too. Murtagh knew. It was easy to see, bond or no bond, behind that contented hum was something much deeper. An everlasting well, so deep, of rich feeling that he poured over the untouched sky. Feelings, so fervent, so affectionate, always overflowing. Feelings Murtagh couldn't dream of matching.

It was _incredible_.

Then again, Thorn loved the sea too. Thorn loved the forest. Thorn loved the desert. Thorn loved the city. Thorn loved sunlight, Thorn loved moonlight, and Thorn loved no light at all. Thorn loved closed walls, open plains, flowers in the spring, winter frost. Thorn loved squirrels and woodpigeons and deer and anything with legs. Especially for breakfast. But chasing was most of the fun.

Thorn loved people too. This was the part which Murtagh really didn't get. And Thorn loved to chase them. Nibble their clothes. Blow smoke in their faces, and cock his head. Maybe offer a friendly lick. Thorn didn't really understand the fact that most people tended to be afraid of oversized fire-breathing lizard. Most people didn't find it endearing. Most people tended to scream.

When Thorn chased after people, Murtagh had to chase after him. _Stupid_.

But still, regardless of what people thought, regardless of what people said, Thorn loved everything. Feelings Murtagh couldn't dream of matching.

_That's what makes you stupid._

Thorn was dangerous, risky, and irresponsible. Thorn was _stupid._ To the point that it was ridiculous. To the point that it was hilarious. To the point that it was completely and utterly loveable in every single fathomable way.

Thorn could always make him, Murtagh, smile. Genuinely, without hate, without bitterness – _smile._

_Stupid oversized lizard__._

It was a term of the greatest affection that only Murtagh could give.

* * *

><p>White Winter Star: I don't really know either! It's a little non-linear at times, but I think an eventual plot will show itself. Most of the perspectives will be from the side of the empire. Also, I play with canon. A lot. Expect some backstory from Galbatorix, and some of Morzan's backstory too, eventually. Most chapters will probably be pretty short, but updated reasonably frequently, with hope!<p>

**A/N:** The first half of this is rather similar in basic plot to a one shot I wrote when I was 15 - it's still up and around, go check it out! I know this is going slowly, but this is a slow fic, so eh. I want to write some chapters to get to grips with Murtagh's character. There's some changes here, it maaaay be a little out of character, but I wanted to start with something, before going into the crazy realm of character development, which I plan to flirt with like crazy.

That's enough of my babbling. Please review and stick with me if you can!

EDIT: I've changed quite a bit of the later part of this. Feels more subtle now. Also, the whole Thorn-doesn't-speak-much feels better explained now. Hope you guys like it. Don't feel you have to review this again - I just felt like I needed to make a few more things clearer.


	3. Delusions

**III:** Delusions

_"I'm dreaming that I'm awake." - A Handmaid's Tale._

* * *

><p>She did this every morning. She did not like to forget.<p>

_(She had promised him, after all.)_

It might be at the morning twilight. She would sit and watch the world be painted in honey-coloured yellows, marmalade orange, the warm colour's of a smiling mother's kitchen, gentle as her soft embrace. _Her mother didn't use a kitchen._

It might be at dawn. She would sit and listen to morning chorus sing. It was cacophonous. It was awful. Her lips would twitch at this – where she came from, all birds were beautiful, and sung as sweetly as their feathers were lustrous, as their flight was graceful. There was, with admittance, something charming about a bird that sang dreadfully, or even not at all. _When was the last time she had sung, truthfully?_

It might be later, in the true height of the morning. This was now. The light had hardened, and broke across the plain, shattering through the shadows. Its colours were no richer, no brighter, no more brilliant than they were now. She usually came earlier though. She would cause less fuss that way. In the mid-morning, she may escape the hustle and bustle of _human_ movement, of their babble and wasted words, but more so, it was a greater _tragedy_ to have to knowingly return to it. If she came later, she knew she wouldn't want to leave.

From a small, grassy hillock, Arya would, every morning, sit and watch the world.

Every morning. Without fail. No more for than a few moments, but for a few moments every morning, she would watch everything else live. It was beautiful, no?

No one in the Varden knew why Arya did this. No one in the Varden knew that she did it at all. That was another reason she preferred to come earlier. Fewer prying eyes may spot her leaving without due. Fewer questions could, if they were ever going to, be asked.

They never did ask.

Arya had before wondered if Eragon would notice. It would be a surprise. She supposed he was so blind that he couldn't see what was right in front of him. So infatuated, that he didn't care to notice the little things, the details. The twisted smiles, the bitter smirks.

Small things, such as the truth.

It was probably better that he didn't notice.

_No, I am being unfair_, she reasoned. How could she possibly expect _anyone_, even the most passionate and devoted lover, to notice? Notice something that she would go to indecent, laughable (_when was the last time _she _laughed?), _extremes to hide. Notice something she would refuse to let others – anyone, especially _Eragon_ of all people, to see.

She wanted them to notice. She didn't want them to notice.

_She was acting like a spoilt child._

Arya stunted her thoughts. She forced herself to stare out into the valley. They were not far from Belatona. Two more days approximately before battle. It was a great shame, she had decided. Such a view as this valley would be tarnished through bloodshed. A sad and necessary sacrifice.

_Would poppies grow here?_

She hoped they would. She liked the flower immensely; she liked many flowers immensely. Here was a pause, where, if she were anyone other elf, she may have gently sighed in very slight, but not lingering, regret.

Arya then let herself do something she would abstain from in company of all others. She shuffled her fingers together awkwardly.

_I wonder what they would think of me if they knew I sat here each morning._

If Eragon found out she came to a similar spot, every morning, what would be the response? Indifference? This certainly wasn't the most eccentric thing Arya had ever done. He might consider it in character for her to do so. He might consider it part of her _mystique_, her _allure_. _Words so misleading; it is such sophistry._ She banished the thought.

Perhaps, instead, he might react more emotionally? Arya considered this. Would be angry? Insane? Torn to pieces? He could scream, and shout, and throw things. Throw a tantrum, of sorts. Declare his _love_. Oh, it would be very childish_._ But she doubted this possibility. _It_, she decided, _it would be easy to assume he would. _Eragon was _human_. He was not a wild animal, enraptured by only his desire for her. She concluded he was not very observant. But this did not make him obstinate. Neither did obstinacy make him completely inconsiderate towards her.

There was, she was aware, a third option. She didn't like to think of it. A bitter smile. An unhappy acceptance. A prolonged goodbye. She wouldn't cry. She'd only cry later. She'd only cry once she'd realised what she'd lost -

_Faolin._

If Arya was human, she would curse aloud. If Arya was elf, she would smile gently and hum. But Arya was Arya, and Arya said nothing.

_You told me, once upon a time forgotten, that if we were to part, to remember to live. You told me to watch a sunrise, and hear the birds sing. You told me-_

Black.

Arya stiffened. Her eyes – lightning quick – swivelled around the scene. _Someone else was here._

She slowly, gradually, tilted her head upwards, as not to be seen moving.

_No._

It could be barely seen. It was ascending into the sky. A dragon – a dragon the colour of spilt blood. It wasn't looking at her – or had noticed her. Yet. She had to be still. Arya couldn't shake. She couldn't. She couldn't be seen.

_How could it – how _could it –_ possibly be so close to the camp?_

She watched it, the terrible majesty of it, drift upwards, its magnificent wings unfurled, soaring. Its distant shadow passed over her. How could she not watch? How could she not watch it – creature of death – and be utterly, completely, enraptured? And terrified. Arya was terrified. But she couldn't shake, she couldn't tremble. Her face did not turn pale. Her fingers did not squeeze into tight fists which she wished she could throw. _Betrayers._ _Monsters_. It began to ascend into the clouds, unseen – and she remained, still, unseen.

_It must be so close for a purpose. Galbatorix's meddling. I need to warn them. They – he – could be in danger again; they need to stay away – _

She began to run.

_I need to warn him._

She didn't notice, in her panic, in her resolve not to tremble, shake, scream in terror, that something was gripping her. She usually would have. But she didn't now. Roots, thick, knurled, twisted around her legs, entangling her, gripping her. Holding her.

She really could not move.

She realised what was happening.

She tried to scream.

She couldn't-

Wouldn't-

Can't-

_They are going to capture me and hurt me again. Then they are going to shave my skin off with a butcher's knife, covered in pigs' blood. Next they are going to pour hot tar over my limbs in the shape of slaves brands, and set fire to it. They are going to gouge my eyes out. Then put them back in again. Then gouge them out. Then put them back in again. Then gouge them out. Then put them back in again. Again and again. Again and again. Again and..._

She blacked out.

The last thing Arya recalled was a mischievous smile of a boy she had never seen before. He couldn't be much older than seventeen – he was human, probably, she didn't know, couldn't think straight – with soft, flowing hair. Blonde hair. He had such beautiful blue eyes, she thought, as she drifted to sleep with a gentle smile.

* * *

><p>They descended rather haphazardly into the forest clearing, as Thorn had spotted a squirrel, though managed to land with limited injury, said squirrel excepting. Thorn, Murtagh repeated to himself, <em>loved everything<em>. Thorn also had a habit of dropping subtle hints.

_Go hunt then. Don't be long._ Murtagh patted the dragon's neck. _And try not to get yourself seen, please?_ This, Murtagh appreciated, was much easier said than done. Hunting Thorn defiantly _did _love – living in the midst of a packed, crowded, dirty urban nightmare, it was impossible. But Thorn had a habit of underestimating his size. He was still a hatchling, after all, in mind. Oversized lizard _indeed_. And it led to stupid things, like mowing down half the forest, or getting trapped in a tree. That particular episode was most comical, at first, until the dragon spent the next four hours attempting, with little success, to free his tail, and moaning. Incessantly. To Murtagh only.

It was also difficult, as one could imagine, for a giant _red_ bloodthirsty reptile to move around a _green_ forest without being spotted.

_Not true!_

This was, of course, in the rare case that Thorn encountered a hermit with red-green colour-blindness. Which he had. _Probably twice, knowing Thorn's luck._ Thorn promised Murtagh that if the ragged, gaunt figure of a man, muttering and mumbling frantically to himself, had indeed taken one hint of notice, one peek, one look at the dragon, Thorn would have eaten him. To which Murtagh wasn't too reassured.

_Just... gah, take care. _These were words probably wasted, in Murtagh's opinion. A grunt came from Thorn's mouth – and a burst of unexpected smoke. This, Murtagh suspected, was the equivalent of a dragon chuckle.

The dragon unfurled its wings, and sped towards the horizon.

Murtagh sighed. Thorn was dangerous. Thorn made him forget his life was on a knife edge. Thorn made him forget to not take risks. Thorn made him forget that if Galbatorix were here they would be already dead.

Galbatorix did not know about this particular loophole.

He didn't know that Murtagh came to this place regularly.

If he did, Murtagh would be dead.

He was sure.

He began to walk through the wood, the shadows of thick oak leaves rustling as he went. It was old, dog-bitten – the roots were chipped and gnarled, the silvery branches crooked, bent inwards, the floor but a carpet of seasons long gone by. As the wood thinned, a spidery footpath began to emerge; he passed a paltry, forlorn looking pond, and stopped.

The reflection of Morzan's son glared back at him.

Murtagh then muttered a few words.

His reflection had changed. Completely. His skin was hardened by crisp sunlight, crinkled by twice his years in frowning and wincing. A unkempt, greasy tangle of nut brown curls now draped from his head. His jaw – thinner, his eyes – wider, his nose – sharper. He looked staggeringly plain and common as dragon muck, fitting his already-very-shabby travelling clothes nicely.

Perfect.

Murtagh – except he was not Murtagh now – winced. This was traditional to do. Murtagh could never get used to seeing that particular reflection; that particular guise. To watch, not a complete stranger staring with such ferocious intent at: but a complete stranger with a resounding resemblance... possibly even related to...

_You haunt me still, don't you?_

A very particular smile crept over this stranger's reflection. It seized the face – twisted it, squeezed and pinched its edges and creases into something sneering, something alien, something _monstrous_. It wasn't made for this face at all. It was only an expression Murtagh could give.

_You're as bad as my conscience,_

He kicked at the pond – no, the _puddle_. Scummy mudwater splayed upwards, gasping for air, grasping at the trees, begging to live.

_Eh, Tornac?_

It was a miserable compromise, really. Compromise was not a word Murtagh – or the stranger, more correctly – expressed great fondness for. It meant that the winners would still win; the losers would still lose. He was still a puppet – not of breathing flesh, but hard, smooth, and impenetrable. Pulled by the same old strings, in the same old directions. A _toy _for squabbling children to argue over.

But, he thought, before Thorn or Tornac or his conscience or anyone else who felt it was their place to, would insist on correcting him, there were the most beautiful stars in this black and bleak midnight sky. He _knew_ that. He was just being _realistic_ - a certain dragon he _did not know _chuckled again in his head. Bah. Overdone and clumsy metaphors aside: his situation wasn't too great. Still, he should be practical. Any specific _curse_ on the name 'Murtagh Morzansson' would be rendered useless – Murtagh he was not, now. And any specific promise Murtagh 'Morzansson' had given had the same value: absolutely nothing. There was some more leniency. Not enough. Never enough. The stranger exhaled.

He tapped Zar'roc twice, muttering, and it too, transformed – into something far more modest and _average_. He didn't usually bring along such an _obvious_ weapon – a dagger slit between a pair of ribs was adequate enough for the stranger. But for this particular planned 'escapade', he knew he'd need it. A grim chuckle. The stranger looked completely _ridiculous_ with a bloodied rider's sword. The sword of _misery_ no less. Misery was for pretentious young nobles who wanted to appear deep and meaningful; it was not for wandering, world-weary travellers. It was laughable. _It was like giving a farm boy a dragon egg_.

The stranger began to stride – quietly but purposely, out of the trees.

Jude Silasson came out of the woods, and into the forgotten valley. He'd been here before. And he'd come here again. But whilst Jude walked firmly in one direction, his feet shuffling against the floor, head down, out of the way – Murtagh couldn't help wincing, couldn't help taking a sideways glance. The fields were dead, rotting, diseased. The cottages crumbling and decayed; they were hollow remnants of a gruelling life. Grunting farmers, squawking wives, snivelling children all wore the same mask. A face sickly pale, coarse, rough, with desperate quivering eyes, sunken to the depths of hell. They always had a hard, hard frown. They always walked to the opposite direction to Jude.

He continued to pound at the floor. Jude didn't notice it - didn't notice how truly _miserable_ these people were. Nobody did.

It was everywhere; it was nowhere.

It always existed; it never had.

It was life.

A poor man's son was not a rich man's father. These people were destined to live and die in poverty. It came down to one thing, really. _Inheritance_. Who your father was. Who your mother was. This was a cycle that had been stuck firmly in the ground for millennia. These people would eat, sleep, and die the same way as they did a thousand years ago. And a thousand years before that. And a thousand years before that. Nothing could change. Nothing _would_ change.

It was easier to pretend that there was some hope left in the world. It was easier to blame someone else. It was easier to forget their fate.

But Murtagh – Murtagh wasn't born to see these faces. He'd been locked away behind castle doors for most of his life. Dreaming. Grasping at hope. Wanting to see _the real world_. But this wasn't _his_ world. And so whilst Jude the wanderer walked on to the ramshackle town of Haye, the destination where they were headed, Murtagh shuddered, and stared. Warriors created graveyards. They didn't visit them.

This was life.

It smelled like death.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Ah, good old doublespeak!

The choice of the name Jude as Murtagh's disguise name is a reference to Thomas Hardy's 'Jude the Obscure', which remains one of my favourite novels by him. It's quite fitting, in its own way, methinks. Silas was a name I pulled out of my ass though - nothing meaningful. And don't worry, we'll come back to Arya ;D

Anyway, thank you so much for the reviews! And everyone who has read this! Sorry this is another rambly monologue chapter - although I wanted to write this part before I throw myself into the heart of it. We will get some action next chapter, and some development, hopefully. Also, I've edited chapter 2 a bit - not much has changed, just niggly details. I'm a bit of a perfectionist like that. I'm also having difficulty now thinking up quotes. Ah well XD

**Restrained Freedom:** I've always been told I'm hard to follow, but hopefully you'll keep up. I keep forgetting that everyone else doesn't have a story clearly in their heads! I've played about with characterisation - that's half the fun. We, after all, have no idea what Thorn is like, or Galbatorix, and our knowledge of Murtagh is pretty sketchy too. So I thought I'd have a play. Glad you liked the scene with Nat - I wondered if it seemed too contrived, but I'm glad that seemed as brutal as I intended it to be XD

** The Luny One: **I'm glad you liked it! This is a bit of a slow fic, so you might have to get used to rambling monologues. We'll see some action and some dialogue in the next chapter - I just used these first few chapters as introductions so I can get to grips with them, really. Much as for my sake! Plot is starting soon, don't worry ;D

** Anon: **Galbatorix is a bit of an eccentric. He's genre savy, to borrow a term off TV tropes, so is completely aware that his existence is an utter cliché. Which makes him fun to write, as well as the fact that he's a ruthless bastard. It's a very fun combination. And yeah, I always considered it strange that for someone whose life was ruined due to the existence of dragons, he didn't have more resentment there. Thorn just lacks common sense at times, and Murtagh, with his very 'don't take risks' attitude, gets infuriated by it at the best of times. They're close, in their own way though. Thanks for reviewing, and I hope ya keep reading.


	4. The Swashbuckling Book Dealer

**IV:** The Swashbuckling Book Dealer

_"I'm sure he couldn't ha' took a better one. The boy is crazy for books, that he is. It runs in our family rather."_ _- Jude the Obscure_

* * *

><p>It had been exactly a week since the stranger had given him the all important conundrum:<p>

"Excuse me, your lighter?" the Stranger asked. It was more a statement aloud than a question.

Colonel Atkinson glanced upwards. He puffing on a just-lit roll of grimy tobacco in the most dog-eared set plain-clothes he could find. It was an unusual situation. Not what he was used to; Belatona was not a military city. The West Square was rather grubby and dishevelled, with its fair share of mad beggars; then again, which city wasn't? The shuffling townsfolk were a little shifty-eyed, but surprisingly cordial, sparing a few chuckles as they bartered over a dead sheep. Small-town mentality, he could only guess. The dusty avenues were shabby, but they were also colourful and proud of themselves, covered in beautiful banners and broken mosaics. It was _nice_. Perhaps even welcoming, on a very good day. This could not be said of the vast and impersonal labyrinth that was Uru'baen.

"Here." Atkinson offered the burning splint to the man.

It was then Atkinson noted that what the Stanger was trying to set alight wasn't tobacco – or opium, if that was your preference, so be it – but a piece of parchment. Covered in spidery handwriting, the pattern on wax seal on the letter was unmistakable. Red and Gold; a royal symbol.

"_Brisingr_," the man muttered. The letter burst immediately into flames.

_Oh, fuck. Anyone but _you.

The man turned towards Atkinson, and met his gaze directly from under a tatty hood.

"Orders from above. I'm _accompanying _your party."

"Understood, sir." Atkinson gave a firm nod. To salute in the middle of the market would be absurd.

"We meet at the co-ordinates indicated, exactly this time next week, as instructed before, aye?"

Atkinson did not try to even conceal a frown. If there was one man he'd honestly wish would never hold a semblance of punctuality, it was him. If there was one man he'd honestly wish he'd never hold a polite conversation with, _it was him_.

"Yes, sir," he answered. He tried not to grit his teeth. Atkinson was better than a common horse.

Murtagh grimaced. _I'm as happy about it as you are._

It had been exactly a week since then.

* * *

><p>Haeye-on-the-water was a 'disappearing town'. It was unimportant, undistinguished, and a blemish on the face of a map. So it didn't appear on it. No more than disorganised rabble of dingy, grubby huts and a semi-wreckage of crumbling old chapel. Rowdy, squalid, insignificant, fading in an out of existence – it was exactly like any other small-town in Alagaesia. On the north-eastern edge of Leona Lake, backing against the Spine, it was close enough to the Terim-Uru'baen trade corridor to never die; but far enough to never grow.<p>

It did, however, have a very good rare book vendor.

The main avenue was packed – to the brim with summer's fresh stalls, dealer's wary calls, 'Come buy, come buy!', giggling maidens and gossiping old hens, the squeaking of rattling carts, the groans of squeamish cattle, wild dogs baking in the heat, barking mad. It was market day, and baskets of ripened berries – strawberries, raspberries, mulberries, cranberries, blackberries; of fresh, sweet peaches, of thick stems of rhubarb, were laid on the streets.

Delicious. Would rot in a few days though.

_A particular dragon decided to steal the watermelon I picked up here last time, _Jude thought with a chuckle. The ravenous carnivore had _hated_ the taste, and spat it out in a rather climatic display the midst of the hustle and bustle, Jude was quickly interrupted-

"Old stranger, good day!"

It was Lloyd, a local pig-farmer, a soft-faced, energetic man. His shaky hands, covered in grime, always flailing wildly as he spoke, beckoned Jude towards him. _Bah, he still wants to see if he can get a sale off me, doesn't he?_ Silly man – travellers didn't buy _meat_ at market. He continued questioningly,

"I know your face – I've seen you here stranger, before..."

"Were you not famous for remembering a foreign face Lloyd?" Jude feigned.

The man chuckled. "Aye, but it seems my reputation precedes me – "

The midday bells began to sing out from the chapel, a reverberating blanket smothering their chatter.

Dong.

Dong.

Dong.

_There was..._

Dong.

Dong.

_There was almost, a sense..._

Dong.

Dong.

_A sense of foreboding...?_

Dong.

Dong.

Dong.

_No, it's nothing. Ignore it._

Dong.

Dong.

Twelve chimes for midday.

"So they finally sorted those bell ringers out?" Jude pulled a wry smile. "Shame, I liked Haeye's peculiar thirteenth chime."

"Ha! Only you Jude – yes, you _are_ Jude, aren't you?" The vendor's smile was sugary poison.

"Right you are, Lloyd," Jude replied. It was a clear side of his status – an outsider. Only an outsider could ever glorify such a banal thing, think it a quaint quirk, an amusing charm of the bizarre, uncultured small-townsfolk. It was belittling – _he_ was belittling. The people of Haeye wanted to have some measly reason left to be proud – the thirteenth chime was an _embarrassment_ – an omen about the vacuous nature of their lives, of their unfaltering obedience to a broken clock.

"So," continued Lloyd, grinning darkly, "Can I finally convince you to buy my wares, then?" Jude gestured a firm 'no'. The vendor hid disappointment with a laugh. "Oh, such a shame, such a shame!"

The pig-farmer let Jude continue on his way – who quickly ducked away from the main avenue, to avoid being pulled aside by prying eyes again. _What if I have to burn down this town one day?_ The thought had danced in his mind before, erratically, spinning in fierce circles. It was not something he _wanted_ to trouble himself by thinking about it. No, better to avoid these people if he could – _how cynical it sounds –_ the rest weren't as jovial as Lloyd. Far from it. He was a stranger, a traveller, a wanderer to them. He bought their wares; he moved on. Besides, what could Jude say to them? He was such an alien, not a noble, not a commoner, not any category at all, not _normal_. What did he usually speak about? Swordplay? Philosophy? Politics? Ha!

Shaking his head, he made his way towards a rather rickety old hut belonging to a man called Wombat.

His actual name was Rufus Cohen. '_What an odd name!' _Jude could hear an obstinate girl declaring in his memory. But everyone called him Wombat – after all, he was '_not from here_,' as another vulgar girl whispered loudly in return, as it was but a horror. He was from the south, was slightly _eccentric_; therefore, Wombat. A warder of words, a 'wise man', a bit of a story-teller by trade, but he helped around town often enough. _Nice enough chap_, the girls would snigger.

When Jude first met Wombat, he had expected to meet a delirious, pompous sod. This, in retrospect, wasn't too inaccurate.

_Rather unseemly for a potential Varden Informant, wasn't it?_

"Son of whore!"

A clatter of metal hit the stone floor. Jude leaned against the doorway of the hut, arms leisurely crossed, with a triumphant smile. Wombat twisted around in an instant, utterly bemused by how complete stranger could be possibly leaning against the doorway of his dilapidated, dingy, pokey kitchen. His eyes widened in recognition:

"Ah, Jude!"

A lithe man with knife-like limbs, Wombat began to lean down to gather the higgledy-piggledy collection of various pots, pans, rare historical artefacts, before he stopped, and his beady eyes narrowed:

"Ah, sword."

He was glaring at the new attachment to Jude's belt, which he never usually brought to Haeye.

"I'm not going to stab you."

"I don't trust you."

Jude roared with laughter in response.

"Wise. You should have known I'd bring it eventually–"

"Yeah, yeah, travelling rogue, ex-soldier, stabbed a lot of men and raped a lot of wives..."

Jude rolled his eyes. This was the melodramatic tripe which everyone else swallowed up when it came to Jude's 'mysterious past'. Jude was certain that Wombat suspected the truth to be far more mundane, as opposed to far more surreal. He grinned devilishly for a moment, but his expression fell.

"I still don't trust your word. Or your sword, more like. Nasty things."

"As you like," Jude sighed. He unfastened the weapon from his belt, and placed it on the oak kitchen table. Wombat's expression softened.

"Welcome to my humble abode, Jude," he chuckled.

The hut was filthy.

It smelt of rotting cabbage. The floor was covered in dirt, muck, and possibly pig faeces. Books lay crying agape over shelves and that spidery scrawl – _annotations – _could be seen clambering up those thick, creamy pages. Mustard parchment littered every surface, every table, shelf, chair. Jude spotted a pile of crumpled, tea-stained charts, tossed aside carelessly – beautiful, intricately detailed and decorated historical maps, _tossed aside_. He wondered if Wombat did this to infuriate him.

It was all very unseemly for a potential Varden informant.

_Except, he isn't a Varden informant. Then I'd have to kill him._ No, the important word was 'potential'. And Wombat was smart enough to ensure that he'd remained merely 'potential' for years. Just as Jude was a 'potential' Empire operative to Wombat (Murtagh snorted in laughter at this). Not enough evidence to have blades at their throats, it seemed.

Jude then pulled two items out of his pack, carefully wrapped in cloth. "I bring house-welcoming gifts," he said with a smirk. Books. Bound in thick, shiny leather, their titles carefully carved in the glittering runic alphabet. They were beautiful books. Rare ones.

"The Elven victory in the north has brought _some_ good," Jude continued, offering them to Wombat. "I thought you'd care for them more – I can't understand a word."

"Ah, down to business, are we?" Wombat grinned. The man breathed books. Especially rare ones. Especially the sort which tended to be banned. The most interesting kinds. Book swapping, of all the humdrum reasons, was what pulled them together, and the hunger for unseen words made sure that Jude would return to Haeye again and again.

Wombat took out a pair of grubby spectacles from a pocket, and examined the goods in detail. "Ah, this is the Ancient Language."

"Old as the hills, it is."

"Elven Hillbillys – Perish the thought!" cried Wombat.

Jude roared with laughter. "Then you'll have no trouble learning an entire language in half an hour," he quipped with a smirk.

"Oh come now Jude," Wombat rolled his eyes, "Haeye isn't _that_ bad."

"More of a flattened mole's mound than a hill, I admit."

Wombat burst into sniggering. It was most defiantly _very unseemly _for a Varden informant. "You cynical bastard. Pah, I know you can't read a word – I bet you don't even know what those books are about."

_Pottery making and Western Du Weldervarden Foliage, actually._

"An eye for an eye," Jude smirked. He could recall getting practically small shipment's worth of the things from Wombat a few weeks ago in _Dwarvish_.

"Makes the world blind. Now take your payment." A book was thrown in his direction. Jude ducked, as it slammed against the wall.

"I hate it when you do that."

"Pah, ex-soldiers and your _superior _reflexes."

_You wouldn't believe _how, Jude thought dryly, bending down, in a position perfect for a counter-attack.

"You're not going to seriously throw the book back now?" asked Wombat coyly. This was true – Jude did not doubt that a conniving bastard like Wombat _did_ have a potion stored away somewhere for blindness. Wombat would have called it poetic justice.

"Nah." Jude picked up the book. He read at the title.

Jude kept his expression still. But _Murtagh_ couldn't. His fingers shook. They gripped the cover. Hard. _What the fuck is this?_ A grim, twisted smile. _This is a joke, isn't it Wombat? _

"_Tales of the Western Seas: Murtagh the Pirate Lord_?" Jude asked quizzically, his face blank.

"Gypsy children's' book – translated copy, so quite dear." Wombat explained, his expression whimsical. "About a hundred years old, actually. Huge allegory to the political situation at the time, and there's some... ah, _eccentric_ philosophising which you yourself might be partial to. Banned by the Riders, interestingly."

"Ah." Jude paused, unable to choke up any words.

_And here we get down to the real business._ Only _Wombat_ would use such a crude excuse to start his favourite topic of discussion – rumours and gossip of the war. Innocent conversation, where secrets of war, of malice and murder, could be let loose with a slip of their stray tongues. They were both partial to it. Jude had once mused aloud that they would both be hung by the end of the war – one for war crimes; one for treason.

Jude attempted to cough up a few words. "Since when could Gypsies read?" The jest fell flat and unconvincing to any fool's ears.

"Since when could birds fly?" Wombat retorted. "And no, if you're wondering, _that_ Murtagh," he said, point a finger at the book, "Bears no resemblance to the current bastard that carries his name."

"Ah?", Jude asked, his tone lighter.

"For one, the protagonist in the book bears absolutely no _familial_ relation to Murtagh the Pirate," spoke Wombat, now in quieter, hushed tones. Jude tried to resist a secretive smile. _Took you long enough to figure that one out_.

"No diabolical monster for a father, either?" Jude chuckled icily. The words sounded iffy – slightly unnatural to his ears, but Wombat took no notice.

"You're misinformed," Wombat said with a gentle smile.

_Oh? _

"Eragon is Morzan's son," Jude said casually. "Is he not?"

"Eragon is Brom's son."

Wombat waited expectantly for a reaction. He got none.

"Brom was spying on the Black Hand. He slept with the whore. For whatever reason. _Love_ probably comes in somewhere. She had an illegitimate child, so she dumped him on a farm. And twenty years on, here we are today."

Jude could nearly laugh. But he didn't.

_Murtagh_, on the other hand – now _he_ was laughing. Hard. Loud. _You expect me to believe this?_ Of course, now, Murtagh should have known: the hero couldn't be tainted with something as _horrifying_ as bad blood. Perish the thought. No, the _hero_ could not possibly have any connection to the villain in any way.

"And your evidence of this is...?"

"Word of mouth."

"Reliable," Jude snorted.

"You don't believe me?"

"It's a very _convenient _solution, isn't it? Seems to be in the nick of time – before _rumours_ start to spread." Jude replied with a cold smile.

"So be it." That smug smile wasn't going to move.

A moment of silence.

But Murtagh could also hear –

_A distant rumbling of hooves. _

_Pounding the floor._

_Thundering._

The signal.

* * *

><p>Murtagh was twelve when he first heard the signal.<p>

He had no idea what it meant. He didn't _want_ to know what it meant.

It was _horrible_.

He spent the entire morning with his hands over his ears-  
>He could still hear the echoes-<br>Of the _screams_-  
>His eyes red-<br>Crying-  
>Little more than a baby-<p>

And Murtagh hadn't cried in years. He was always resolute, still, in stony silence, as a child. His face was a blank mask. He'd stare out from the windows, watching a world denied to him, emotionless.

_No, I'm Angry – _

He always insisted. He had to be angry. He had to be bitter.

Until the signal came. It was short – but, for one moment.

For one moment, he couldn't be angry. He couldn't. He couldn't he couldn't _he couldn't he couldn't-hecouldn't-_

But he knew now. It sung – smothering everything, smothering chatter and babble and titter-tatter – when his name was spoken. His _real _one. His _true_ name. Not Murtagh. Not Jude. His _name_. This made sense, he knew. This was the right conclusion – _he was sure_. And Galbatorix had control of it. For all these years the _loathsome man__ had control of him._

He had worked this out: it made sense. It must be his name being spoken.

When most people heard their name spoken, they shivered in fright. It was like looking into their empty graves. It was like looking into the empty void. It was like seeing what would become of their feeble lives.

When Murtagh heard his name spoken, he trembled in agony. It was like looking into the depths of hell.

* * *

><p>Jude needed to disappear. Desperately.<p>

"I need to abandon you for now, Wombat, unfortunately-"

"Oh! How _heart_less of you Jude, we still have much to say," Wombat interrupted, with a very sinister smile.

"Jests aside – I need to go, something has come about-"

_He could hear a child screaming._

"Have you really not seen the _heart _of the issue Jude?" Oh yes, his smile was very dark. He wasn't going to get away easily.

Jude grimaced. "What are you _implying, _Wombat, dammit_?"_

"Don't trifle with me." Wombat's tone was suddenly quiet, cold, serious. Jude glared back. _He could hear a child screaming, and it was getting louder, and louder, and louder-_

"I really don't know what you're talking about-" he started.

"Well, I really don't trust you at all," Wombat said with a smirk.

"You've been misinformed, whatever it is," he insisted. "Look, I need to go-"

"Have you really no _heart_ Jude?"

_Have I no heart?_

Jude didn't know.

_The child would not stop screaming._

Jude didn't know, didn't care, and wanted to get out.

He grabbed his sword.

"You really don't know then, eh? About hearts? You really don't have one?"

Jude gave a blank look only in return, stuffing _Tales of the Western Seas: Murtagh the Pirate_ _Lord_ into his bag, and ran. He ran out of Haeye. He ran to where he was supposed to be.

He ran until the signal died.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I hope you're not too confused so far, with the whole Murtagh pretending to be someone else. He's so recognisable that it makes him a liability. And yes, Murtagh has absolutely no idea about the Eldunari, although the Varden have still been told about them by Oromis/Eragon. This defies canon, because Murtagh references it in the early encounter in Brisingr, but fuck that. Having Eldunari seems a cop out, so there'll be a different explanation to Galby. And I promise to make no more Jude The Obscure references from now on. My English course means that I'm going to be reading a lot of classic romance over the next few weeks, so you'll get even more pretentious quotes/name drops in the future. Yay! However school starts on Monday, and I have an exam on Thursday, so expect updates to be restricted to a weekly basis.

Please review if you can! And thank you for reading - seeing all those hits is pretty damn awesome.


	5. The Black Lily

**V:** The Black Lily

_"Gazing where the lilies blow _  
><em> Round an island there below, <em>  
><em> The island of Shalott."<em>

_- Lady of Shallot, Alfred Tennyson_

* * *

><p>She had been captured.<p>

_Hadn't she?_

Arya didn't know. Not a bruise or a bite or a burn stained her skin. No clammy fingers, no sizzling rods; nothing had touched her.

She wasn't lying in a rotten dungeon, bitterly cold, screaming for help, bathing in her own stench.

She was in a bedroom.

Stone walls. Thick, sturdy. Impenetrable. _She couldn't break them down, no matter how many times she might throw herself at them, no matter how many times she might bang her head against them._ In conclusion, she was probably in a fine castle somewhere...

Except it wasn't _fine_.

It was exquisite.

Mahogany floors, satin sheets encrusted with jewels, delicate carvings on an oak armoire, an ornate mirror, an intricate tapestry of gallant knights, splendid queens, wintery dreams... silver silk drapes twirling in the wind...

It was all she could see from her bed.

_The wind... when was the last time she had felt the wind?_

She hadn't moved from when she had waked. She hadn't even looked outside. _I don't deserve to look. I don't deserve any of this._

But she was going to look outside anyway. _Taking what I don't deserve, as usual._ Gingerly, she stepped from the bed, onto the harsh floor. Her bare feet shuddered – but she didn't trip. Arya wouldn't let herself trip. Arya wouldn't let herself do something so _weak._ She was supposed to be an elf, so she should remain _graceful_ at all times.

Her cold, deep-green eyes were now glaring at her from the glint of the mirror. It was then she noticed the strange, thin, wispy fabric hanging from her shoulders.

_I'm wearing a dress..._

It was virginal white. Pure. It covered her arms to sharp fingertips, with the main body of the soft fabric falling straight to the floor. It was made for a more wholesome woman, she could see, and the dress smothered her. Her features looked skeletal, jutting, sickly pale in comparison. She might has well have been wearing an empty sack.

_It looks ridiculous_.

It did not matter though. It was just a dress. She did feel rather uncomfortable without her much-loved leather. She'd bought it years ago, from a human tannery to make a rather _crude_ point to her mother. _Everyone was disgusted with me_. Arya had been disgusted with herself. _It was absolutely vile._ Her would lurch. She refused to shudder, though, knowing she was wearing the skins of a dead soul. She was making a point. And eventually she got used to it. She got used to how _revolting_ it was.

She wandered towards the silver drapes, drawing them back, and fully opened the tinted window.

Far, far below her, lay a view of a sprawling city, spreading far past the horizon. Lofty buildings and dark alleys seemed like dotted lines on a map, and the rich and raucous sounds of market day had merged into a warm rumble. She was above everything, and her fingertips could brush blue, blue sky.

_A princess in a tower. _

If she were someone else, she might have pulled a wry smile here. But Arya's face remained blank. Evidently, this particular elf did not understand irony. If she did, it was not very humorous, because Arya did not smile.

_When was the last time I smiled?_

She then looked downwards.

Directly below her was an abstract montage of the grey spires and squares of a towering palace, mixing and interlinking, maze-like. Organised groups of red-coloured dots – men – march along walkways and courtyards, in complete precision. Soldiers, she realised.

_Red soldiers_.

Red.

The colour of the Empire. The colour of blood.

She became completely still. Her eyes did not widen. Her fingers did not tremble. Her voice did not scream –

She was in Uru'baen.

She was in _Uru'baen_

_I've been captured, haven't I?_

She was a failure.

She had failed the Varden, failed her race, failed everyone's hopes, everyone's dreams, everyone's aspirations. They would open her mind, her soul, steal all her secrets, and steal all _The Varden's _secrets, _their _strategies, _their _plans. They would lose everything. They would the war, they would lose themselves, they would lose a thousand people, dying and screaming, for a battle they could never even beat. She would _lose_ everything_._

_This is an illogical reasoning_, Arya thought. After all, there was always hope. There was always a way out. There was always something she could do.

There was, _wasn't there?_

_Wasn't there?_

She blocked out the question. She would refuse to listen to it. She then, methodically, carefully, scanned the room. The door was magically locked. Impossible to burn down. Impossible to break down. The window was far too high for her to safely scale down unnoticed. There was a magical barrier around it, which would prevent her if she ever wanted to throw herself outside in a moment of impulsive, irrational weakness. The walls, ceiling, and floor had been magically sealed and strengthened as well. She checked for cracks, for weaknesses, for broken parts. There was no passage she could create, no tunnel she could build. There was no way she could transport herself out in any way or form or matter.

There was no feasible escape route from this place. Yet.

_I have to wait for now, don't I?_

Eventually, someone at the Varden would realise her... unexpected absence. They would realise how little trace that has been given, and realise her disappearance was most likely hostile. _But they would not jump to conclusions. They wouldn't realise I am currently here, of all extreme places to be_. This was assuming that her presence would be sorely missed. Arya doubted it. _There are more powerful elves than me. I am – was – there only due to my own insistence against my mother. _

No, Arya doubted they'd notice at all.

Unless of course, a ransom was made, the kidnapping made known, and the dark King was playing games with her and the Varden. They would send out a rescue party, with Eragon insisting on coming- _The princess would wait in her tower, watching sun rise, sun set, sun rise, sun set, until her valiant prince came to save her..._

Arya blocked her thoughts. _I do not believe in human 'fairy tales'._ She did not believe in miracles. She did not believe in deserved happy endings. What even made her think she even _deserved_ a happy ending anyway?

_I don't think that_.

Because she had been captured, hadn't she? _Again_. She had failed. _Again_. She was as weak and helpless as before. _You think you would have learnt, wouldn't you?_ She bit her lip. Hard. _You're exactly the same as before. _It began to bleed. _Nothing's changed._

She couldn't do anything about it. _Again_. All she could do is nothing.

_This was all I was ever meant for, wasn't it?_

Was it? She could do something. She would mourn, if not anything. As it would be proper to do so, until the correct time had passed, until the tragedy was over, and a new generation would take her place.

For days. For weeks.

_I will wait. I will wait for someone to rescue me. I am merely a helpless princess, after all._

She waited.

She waited.

She waited.

After five minutes, she stopped.

_I cannot do this._

Five minutes of silence. Five minutes of feeling nothing. Five minutes of sitting still. She could only mourn for five cold, motionless minutes.

_Why do I feel nothing?_

She wanted to cry. It was a worthy cause to cry for. She should have been able to let a single, beautiful, tragic tear glisten along her cheek. She managed it when she retold the horrors of her torture to everyone. In cold, glacial tones. She was devoid of any emotion. A cold shell of a walking, living being. But she had still cried then.

She couldn't cry now.

It was logical for her to cry. She had now caused the downfall of the Varden. She had now destroyed all she had been working for. All her life's efforts. A hundred years. Wasted. These were good reasons.

_Why am I not upset?_

She didn't understand why.

It was then that Arya heard a sudden, moaning creak. The wind had blown the vast wooden door open. The door to her room. The door that she was completely and utterly sure was locked.

Against all better judgement, Arya walked silently out of the room.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Yeah, I'm cheating you now and throwing in an Arya chapter. I said I'd be back in a week, didn't I? I'm going to be much busier over this term than anticipated, so I'm doubting whether I'll have time ever to finish this fic. I had difficulty capturing Arya in this chapter at first. Next Arya chapter will be even worse. Oh dear...

**Restrained Freedom:** Thank you so much for reviewing all this XD. It'll sort itself out... in a chapter and a half? It's probably still going to be confusing, I just write in that way.

Please review guys - you know you want to!


	6. Earl Grey Tea

**VI:** Earl Grey Tea

_'...she laughed with thrilling scorn. "Sophisticated — God, I'm sophisticated!" '_ - _Daisy, The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald._

* * *

><p>Her feet cascaded down the spiral staircase like a waterfall, spitting and hissing as they crunched into the teething rocks below.<p>

She did not walk. She ran.

Something lurched out from her, as soon as those small, delicate feet waltzed out of the light and airy bedroom. They launched into a grand crescendo, _allegro ma non troppo_, a smooth _glissando_ breaking into short, sharp, staccato bullets, breaking into something tangled, something frenzied, something wild.

_Maestroso._

She descended, fingers scraping along the cool, thick, brickwork, clenching and twisting around her, the black soot and shade darkening, creeping over her lily-white face; she was a beacon drowning in the shadows.

_Impetuoso._

She allowed herself a short, sharp intake of breath. It sent a small, rumbling thrill, a gentle shiver through her. Arya felt herself tremble, an almost _merry_ tremble, for a short moment. Perhaps if she were someone else, she'd have allowed herself a shy, mischievous smile to creep over her face, and her silhouette to hunch and crumple delightedly. But she wasn't someone else. She retained the rigid porcelain mask on her face that she always did.

_Besides, elves do not tremble._

She _did_ tremble though. Regardless of whether it was proper, correct, and traditional; she _did it_. She ran, perhaps gleefully, perhaps gracefully, down into the darkness, down into the fire, down, down, _down_ those twisted coils, the stone steps, the balls of her feet signed by the burning coolness, the frigid fire, of a soft sole touching the cold, hard, world for the very first time.

_Espressivo._

_But_, she emphasised, _but –_ she was going to be careful. Of course. She was going to be practical and logical and rational. That was expected. She would make a mental graphical note of her surroundings, she would place a magical trace of her route and her directions, she would look for potential exit routes and ensure thorough wards were placed correctly and properly, yes, of course she would –

The sun glinted in her jagged eyes.

_People. There are people everywhere._

Arya had left the tower and was stood, frozen in the sunlight, in a wide, open courtyard, barred by four towers in each corner.

_There are people everywhere and I am completely visible._

In scarlet cloaks and bloodied entrails, they darted to and fro', chuckling, chortling, grimacing, whispering slyly to themselves, a quick wink to a lady, turning crimson in colour. Casually done. Lazily done. Soldiers, knaves, knights, nobles, lily-maids – _slaves, scourges, scum, stench_ – limply wandered around the glaring sun. Many helmeted soldiers zigzagged across the baking cobblestones, in complete silence, muttering only to themselves, horny beetles scurrying across the square.

_There are people everywhere and they are not looking at me._

As per usual. As normal.

_Why aren't they looking at me?_

She stepped forward, tentatively, slowly, placing her feet in the path or a burly, thick-necked squire, leather jerkin buttoned tightly. His arms sliced at his sides, boxed in by his own massive figure. His gaze was set forwards – not at her, but behind her, towards the clawed southern gates, black clasps emerging from the grey, apathetic walls. She did not move. He did though – moving strides closer, moving towards the gateway, purposefully, moving closer, moving in, to where a skeletal princess jutted out of the sunlight.

But he did not notice her.

He did not take one peak, one gaze, one look. Arya had to step out of the way before he unwilling crashed into her, striding forward with such force. In fact, no one had seemed to paid attention at all to this foreign, _alien_ princess. Her jagged eyes and jagged ears protruded so obviously, so noticeably; her attire made for a completely different shape and species. She was different. (And she wasn't supposed to be here at all). Yet – they couldn't see _her._ They _couldn't_ –

_It's as if I'm invisible_. _Completely and utterly invisible –_

A thought, a possibility, struck her.

_Am I?_

A plot, a thought hatched, baring its misshapen head to the garish summer afternoon. She looked towards a soldier leant on the rugged walls of the courtyard, solitary, a lit tobacco roll wedged between his fingers. Smoking. Not a care, not a thought, lingering in the world. She walked calmly towards him.

_This is_ _a risk. It's illogical, irrational, and simply absurd._

The man – boy, more like, with a powdering of grizzly stubble – gawked dreamily upwards at the gentle afternoon sky. Her hand approached the tip of his nose, tentatively, fingers shivering ever so slightly. His breath tickled her skin, rumbling a little.

_You're being illogical, irrational and simply absurd._

Her heart shuddered.

_You're risking his life too. Because you're being 'rebellious'. Again. You said you'd never do this again. You said –_

She snatched the tobacco roll out of his hands.

"Wha-?" The boy blurted out, startled.

Arya froze.

_Look at what you've done._

She should have ran now. She should have ran before he saw her. But she couldn't. Her feet remained fixed to the floor, cast in iron. Unable to shake with fear, unable to move.

_He'll call the alarm and he'll call the guards and they'll take me away, screaming and panicking, and throw me in the dungeons and I'll never be able to escape, I'll be a failure, a failure–_

"_How?_" he muttered, half-awake. The boy glanced at his hands quizzically. He gave a firm shake of the head, swallowing a breath, and pulled a second tobacco roll stashed in his purse. Muttering a magical word, the end of the roll lit alight. He took a long, long drag. Arya was still standing inches away from him, the first roll pierced between a shaking finger and thumb.

_He can't see it. _She took a fractured, heavy breath. _He can't see it at all. And he can't see me. Not at all, I'm completely – _

Invisible. She was completely invisible, unnoticeable, hidden. Never able to be found. Never able to be seen. Was it a curse? Was it a _bond?_

_It is illogical to assume such things. It is most probably temporary. It is most probably a completely reversible spell of some fashion._

She began to walk, out of the courtyard, into the palace proper, her feet aimlessly wandering in a direction – any direction, paying little attention to where or what or why. Her face remained blank, apathetic, and as blasé as the ostentatious imperial tapestries that hung smugly along the vacuous corridors. Her figure remained a graceful puppet, gliding silently past gaggles of laughing nobles and ladies, fenced around with stony faced guardsmen, eyes grim with despair. She would never understand humans. How did they laugh as other's walked to their death?

_Shouldn't you know the answer to that question?_ Arya ignored the thought. She should stop thinking. It was imprudent and unbecoming of her.

"How unbecoming!"

Arya stopped, momentarily. That voice _couldn't_ be directed at her, could it? No, that was a ridiculous and unfounded assumption. There was no logic in thinking it was. Yet if that was so, then why did her heart suddenly pound against her ribcage like frantic bumblebee impaled on a thorn? She ignored it though. She did not turn around, and she continued to walk swiftly on again.

"You don't look like a smoker, you know."

She was completely still. Arya still had the cigarette roll stolen from the boy in her hand. And if Arya was anyone else, she would have cursed very, very loudly now. Like she were screaming in pain.

_They've seen me... They've seen me._ Arya did not mentally admit that she was petrified, completely petrified, right now. _Am I going to die?_

A hand was placed on her shoulder. _Petrified_. Her body became a rigid statue.

"Hello there!"

A stranger darted in front of her, twirling into view.

"Oh, it's so lovely – absolutely _splendid –_ to meet someone: someone else like... this!" He had soft, flowing hair, the lightest shade of blonde in the world, and large blue eyes, peering directly _at_ her. "Really, 'tis capital!"

She had seen him before. He was the boy who she'd seen this morning, (or was it yesterday or the day before?) – the morning she'd been brought here.

Arya was speechless.

"It's... such a comfort – finally – and, well, you don't see through me, and I'm... sorry, I must appear as someone of a rather nervous disposition mustn't I? I apologise, it's just the first time I've been seen – are you _sure_ you're quite all right, Miss Elf? You _do_ look rather pale: perhaps _shaking_, which is rather unseemly by the standards of your kind, as far as I am aware – although that is not– oh! In Adam's name, no! Don't run away! Please!"

Arya could not stand there a moment longer. Being seen. The last thing she wanted in the world.

So she ran instead, back to her ivory tower, a damsel in distress.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Meh, like last Arya's chapter more. But we now meet Mr. Blondie from chapter three, if you cannot recall. You might figure out who he is. Also, italian musical terms in this chapter:

**_allegro ma non troppo_**: Fast, but not too much.  
><em><strong>glissando<strong>: _To glide from one pitch to another (in music)  
><em><strong>stacatto<strong>: _Short, detatched.  
><em><strong>Maestroso<strong>: _Majestically  
><em><strong>Impetuoso<strong>: _Impetuously  
><strong><em>Espressivo<em>**: Expressively

Apologies for the colossal wait! Reaaaally huge one there. I've had writers block and school's been pretty heavy at the moment. I broke up with my boyfriend a few weeks ago as well, and so emotionally I've just recovered from that. I suspect it'll remain heavy for a couple of weeks more. After the 20th July or so, I'll be completely free and I intend on writing as much as I possibly can. This story is now up on Shurty's Fanfiction site if you want to check it out there.

And a huge, huge thank you to anyone who has read or reviewed this. I hope you will enjoy this as much as I am writing it :)

Extra note: Changed the name of this. About time! This is much more reflective of the themes of the story, although the idea of 'thirteen' and running out of time still plays a large part in terms of theme - just not _as_ large. This story was much more about hiding yourself behind a persona, as brilliantly being exhibited by Arya's flimsy mental state right now.


	7. Shadows of Men

**VII:** Shadows of Men

_"Is this what war is? Is this what men want so much? Is this sposed to make them _men_?"_ - _Chaos Walking, Patrick Ness_

* * *

><p>The evening was draped in summer's soft shawl, trembling; the breeze was smooth and silky. Colours glowed and softened, flitting with the shadows – those wild and mysterious shadows – and seized them. Within those dark, deep, sudden valleys, thick with luscious forest, something quivered. An embrace, old as the Spine itself. The scents sung; the world stirred.<p>

It was an evening for loving. Not for running. Not for stampeding horses, hooves thundering, eyes maddened with fear. Not for clawing at the chalk tracks, swerving, spinning, inches from tumbling, inches from falling into the sheer drop of the valley, into the grasps of those treacherous, treacherous shadows.

It was risky.

It was exhilarating.

Could you blame him? Even he, Dorian, the eldest, most responsible 'child' of a band of twenty-something-year-old boys, could not help feel his heart swelling, rising, as the rickety cart thundered through these twisting hills and valleys, ups and downs. They were so close to their destination – their goal, their freedom, their _glorious_ victory. It was splendid, it was. Risky. Stupid. Splendid. Oh, – he had to ask himself, regardless of the consequences – where had this wild, wondrous evening been?

For this is what life had become: A drudgery. A routine. During the days, they, the four of them, worked liked clockwork, trundling along mechanically, in rhythm with everyone else – the traders, the travellers, the soldiers. They would march in line, drearily, hopelessly, eyes vacant. Like everyone else. No one raised their eyes above their hoods. No one spoke. During the days, there could be no suspicion, no trace, and no thought to what had occurred.

They had stolen a box.

It was the _King's_ box.

And the Varden hungered for everything that belonged to the King – his kingdom, his crown, and his bloodied head that once wore it on a pike. They especially liked lucrative little boxes, so invaluable that none of the four thieves sent to Gil'ead could ever possibly be trusted to _know_ its actual contents. Dorian scoffed at this – but really, he couldn't blame the Varden. Who'd have the sense to actually trust a thief?

So they weren't told. All four of them. Four thieves. Four less threats. They had been chosen to be cast into the wilds, chained animals they were, to risk their pathetic, sorry souls. It was a fool's errand.

That didn't sate their curiosity though. It didn't humble their hungry eyes. No, it fuelled them, knowing how futile it felt. They would peer at it, squint at it, pry at it from under their rags and righteousness. A shallow, rectangular box, pine wood, regular grain, one foot three inches wide and eleven inches wide. It engulfed them.

During the bitter, frigid nights, shivering under a somewhat frosty blanket of darkness, they would dare to whisper, spit and spill a few fumbling words. They trembled, eyes shaking left, right, forward, up, down, backwards, there, here – but not allowed to blink. They were on guard duty. They could not blink, or wink, or squeeze themselves just short of shut. Their bodies would stand erect, to attention, and they would bore themselves into the smothering blackness in the beyond, the stark, sheer, stinging blackness, like the blackness in that _box,_ that _box_.

"Has got t'be a weapon," Frank muttered, spitting the words out through his tongue. He gripped his matted cloak hard. It was cold.

Marcel let out a coarse groan. He couldn't sleep. Just like everyone else. "Not that theory again."

"I'm serious, you hear. 'Sgot to be that -"

"That's way too damn bloody obvious. The King ain't _stupid-_"

"- nuttin' else can stop us, right? We're not 'fraid of ghosts or spirits-"

"- he's not going to lure us out into a _wild goose chase _for a bloody sword-"

"- or dumb _fairy tales_ for kids. There isn't nuttin' we're 'fraid of 'cept-"

"Staying alive."

It was Dorian who whispered these piercing words. The two other soldiers fell silent.

Marcel then twisted around, away from Dorian's, his elbows buckling as he gripped his cloak tighter. He didn't say anything. The other boy continued to gaze upwards, eyes wandering. The stars gleamed wickedly above. He sighed:

"I haven't signed my death certificate yet, y'know."

"Yeah, Frank, I know. Wife n' kids, wife n' kids."

"She's due in two months! I ain't no father yet-"

"You're not much older than a kid yourself, though."

A short silence. Dorian could practically hear the lad's brow crumble and strain.

"Gah!" he cried. "I'd like you more if you didn't – gah, you think you know best – you don't – you ain't... gah."

"Sorry Frank."

"Don't bloody apologise, you'd say it again."

Another silence. It wasn't helped by the fact that he was completely right. Dorian held in a grimace.

A while passed, and Frank spoke again, softly:

"You think it's the last egg, don't yeh?"

Dorian's eyebrows shot upwards. "Bloody_ hell_, Frank."

"Don't act like you don't think 'bout it – we all do – 'bout that _box_ –"

"I don't care, I really couldn't care less –"

"Pah!"

It was an angry, frustrated cry, not a jovial one.

"What? Seriously Frank, I couldn't give a _dragon's tits _'bout the box at all," Dorian spat.

He didn't reply.

It was a moment before anyone spoke. The stars continued to glitter above. One could hear them sniggering.

"Fine, fine, I care." Dorian said this bluntly, cleanly, with no hint of lingering anger - simply distatse. "I admit that I care. But really," he continued, letting a loose a long sigh, "It's suspicious, isn't it? I mean..."

_I knew you cared, really._

"I mean... Why would they send _us_ of all people?" He sighed. "We can all cast a few spells, swing a sword about – but we're far from the strongest in the world. We're no game-changers, nothing _extraordinary_. We're just men. Flesh and blood, and little more. And we're stealing something far, far, far beyond... Hell, why didn't we just nip up from Gil'ead to Cenuon in the first place? We have no time - but we're wasting it - _pissing around_ - gallivanting about the south with this, this _stupid_ box."

Dorian stopped. His words were criss-crossing and fumbling, tumbling about in the blackened air. He inhaled. He exhaled. He continued:

"It makes no sense, you know, sending us down the edge of the Spine – really, the Spine! It's so bloody infuriating, and it's suspicious to boot. We could have just gone to the north and the Elves, they'd take care of it, of course, _they're Elves_-"

"Knew it!" Frank burst out – his tone _seething_; putrid with spite.

"What?"

"You're just want – you like – _graceful_ pansies, damn those arrogant – _bollocks. _They're just a whole load of _bollocks_ who don't do 'nuttin."

"Frank!" Dorian cried, shock flaring beneath.

"Yeh. I know, I'm a racist twat."

"You sound like you're proud of it," he spat, his lips curling into a sneer.

"I am." Frank was now looking at him. "Admit it, nobody likes 'em or trusts 'em. They're monsters. _Monsters_. Fairy tales – we're going nowhere near them."

"Oh-"

Dorian couldn't argue with this any longer. Why he had decided to blurt out all these stray thoughts, to _Frank_ of all people, he had no clue. Frank was not someone you had a jolly ol' natter with. Then again, Dorian could never say that for his good self. No, with Frank, it was always about swinging your sword about, strutting 'your stuff', prancing about or, oh god, wrestling bears – probably drunk at the time – or something else wicked unknown but to God. He fought. All the time. And the worst thing was that he was often the winner.

Dorian sighed. The situation _was _suspicious. If the box contained an egg, (although this clause was redundant, as Dorian was assured by his own good knowledge that it _was_, as what other object could be powerful enough to change the 'game' as such?) either way, in which case, ignoring the elves was absurd. They were stronger, sleeker, faster, wittier, more sophisticated overall: they were the _better_ kind. An Elven rider would be a huge asset. A political pawn with the power of a queen, to use a despised metaphor. But here, instead, they were travelling in the opposing direction of the elves, in utmost secrecy, to deliver the egg to the humans. It was the greatest possible snub! Yet, Dorian could not help wondering whether Frank's crude thoughts rang true; the elves were never entirely welcomed or embraced as they should have been by humanity. Delightful creatures burdened with spite.

Yet, yet – Dorian's thoughts couldn't help meandering, wandering astray – _what of Abigail? _What of his dear, beloved sister, whose devoted letters he read ardently, and replied with in equal affection? A wholesome woman – so unlike Dorian, who was constantly enraptured in his own spells and magic – and always willing to _give_. She had a gentle spouse, a bouncing baby boy, and a patchwork farm; these idyllic, almost _pastoral_ thoughts were things Dorian could barely fathom.

_She had lived on the outskirts of Cenuon_.

Dorian still wasn't sure if their planned escape had been executed without trouble. He pretended to think it had.

_She had nearly perished in the raging blaze._

He liked to pretend that he wasn't expendable because of only having one distant relation whom physical contact was so fleeting and occasional that he might as well be completely alone.

_She had limped on alone towards Gil'ead, crawling in the dust._

He liked to pretend that her life was more than an afterthought to his own.

_She had struggled: as was expected, as was proper, as was _correct, _as –  
><em>

He liked to pretend that whilst idly lost in his own guilt on that beautiful, wild evening, that the horses weren't restless and the rickety cart wasn't straying. That the shadows weren't treacherous, misleading, and throwing them off course.

That it wasn't teetering as they swerved round a corner.

That it wasn't shaking at the edge.

That it wasn't tumbling over.

Spinning.

The cart, the horses, the thieves, the _box_. It all toppled over the edge, and into the dark clutches of the valley.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **You'll get more information about 'the box' next chapter. I think I quite like next chapter and how it's shaping up. Although I'm finding Murtagh the bigger challenge to write as of current - mainly because the story has changed a lot since I originally conceived it, and I've had troubles getting to grips with how _I_ want to perceive my Murtagh, who is a little more complex and torn and self-aware than CP's (if I pull him off correctly). Now I've got Murtagh down, he's inconsistent with how I've portrayed him before. I want to completely rehash the first few chapters of this anyway - they were an awesome literary experiment, but need lots of work. I feel like my writing has got better in the past month too. The only chapters I want to keep are Arya's - she's the only character that's staying the same in this.

I hope I've made Dorian insufferable enough. Writing his character was fun. Oh, and the quote of today is from the last book of the best YA series I have ever read, Chaos Walking. Read it. It's brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I can't recommend it more, and I would recommend it to anybody.


	8. Tweedledee

**VIII:** Tweedledee

* * *

><p>"Milady, the fifth patrol has not returned this morning-"<p>

"Milady, the terrain is too sharp for our ranks, we must take an alternate route, the horses cannot handle it-"

"Milady, there is still no sign of the fifth patrol that disappeared this morning-"

"Milady, the dwarves complain of overpriced meat and beer – your merchants swindle us based on race: this is grossly unfair-"

"Milady, the fifth patrol this morning have been found – all slaughtered, with no sign of enemy casualties-"

"Milady, where is my son! Oh where is my darling son!-"

"Milady-"

"Milady-"

Nasuada drummed her fingers against the edge her saddle, waiting. _Petulant concerns._

The Varden had been on the march since the crack of dawn. They were lumbering along. Slowly. With queries, questions, requests, they were lagging further behind. The sun was thinning across the plains now, the horses wheezing – and they had travelled _nowhere_. At this 'leisurely' rate, it would take seven months – not seven days – to arrive at Belatona.

It was frustrating.

_I have the patience of a saint_, she reminded herself.

She had listened to every complaint, every concern, and every trouble – and dealt with them diligently, thoroughly, and correctly. She would see to it that every issue of varying significance was dealt with the greatest care and attention. She would do this with a smile. And she would ensure that each and every objector – may it be man, woman, dwarf, elf, or urgal – would be content. Maybe not smiling, as compromise was a gruelling but necessary process in such matter – but content.

This was her role. This was her duty.

In a very strange way, it was quite enjoyable to her.

"Milady!"

Keeping her body perched upright on the horse; she turned to see to this next dispute.

"Ah, Eragon!"

A smile broke upon her face; a sunbeam broke a grey and stormy sky. A genuine one, too. She was probably too fond of the dragon rider, considering her role, but she did quite enjoy his company – unlike _other_ politicians she could name. Eragon was both easy and charming to deal with, his fumbling, awkward mannerisms holding little risk for her and being quite the amusement. He was a boy – in a man's war – that was _painfully_ obvious. Then again, Nasuada herself was no man.

"Milady, have you seen Arya at all – well, today? I have asked others, but there's not a trace of her to be seen, it seems." The dragon rider looked concerned, almost nervous.

"I haven't I'm afraid, Eragon." Her expression hardened like stone. _Not much changes, then?_ She was not surprised. Keeping her tone light and nonchalant, she elaborated: "I don't tend to keep track of her; she's often out by herself. She's capable enough of handling whatever is thrown her way."

Seeing that this stately reply hadn't assured him, she continued:

"I assure you, Eragon, she will return soon. Do not worry – I will send word when I next see her."

Eragon nodded slowly. "You're right... Yes, she's capable of taking care of herself..." A troubled look briefly skirted across his face, but he hid it with a fool's grimace. He sighed, almost sounding disappointed, letting his breath linger, for a moment, before finally replying with a rigid formality: "Thank you for your concern, Milady."

Nasuada did not notice any of this. It was neither her place nor her concern.

"My pleasure." She smiled. It really was. All had been resolved.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** This chapter is meant to be short (hence lack of quote) - I had thought of including it with something else, but it's best as a small moment on its own. It gives a bit of an idea where the Varden is, and there's an irony in that people have only just noticed Arya's absence after three chapters of her. I wanted to get this up to you now, instead of posting it as part of another chapter, because I'm going to Wales for four days starting tomorrow, and won't have any access to a pen, let alone a computer. After that, on the 30th, I'm going to Spain for a week. So I might not have the time to write so intensively as I might have liked at the start of the holidays. But I should hopefully have a chapter before the 30th for you guys :D. School finished today finally, so I should hopefully write A LOT over the short summer holiday this year. Also, I'm rewriting some of this as well for yet another website, so I might update some older chapters. Watch this space!


	9. Helocentricism

**IX:** Helocentricism

_"Seriousness is the only refuge of the shallow." - Oscar Wilde_

* * *

><p>The cart toppled over the cliff edge; twisting and turning like a wooden yo-yo on a broken thread – a spinning, unidentifiable mass of nut brown and blood red, falling towards the slanted face of forest.<p>

The owner of this calamitous yo-yo, a stern-faced twenty-year old child, of a storm-grey disposition, seemed utterly disinterested in its demise. It was perhaps, almost disappointed how effortless and gracefully done the whole catastrophe was, judging by the unshakeable, unmoving, frozen expression. A blank face – as usual. Poker face, perhaps? Atkinson wondered, but he honestly could not tell. Murtagh, after all, had heard worse than the current howls and screams of the petrified horses that tumbled over the edge.

"Say, Atkinson, what's your opinion on Helocentricism?"

_You've got to be fucking kidding me._

"I don't hold an opinion on that matter, sir," Atkinson replied. It was a curt reply. He did not look at Murtagh. He only focused on the hurtling carriage that sailed above them. He expected the Red Rider to resume his usual glacial silence on all matters of all consequences.

But he continued to interrupt.

"Surely you must have some thoughts on the matter, Atkinson?"

Atkinson did not turn around. _Of course_ he held thoughts on the matter. He was far from an uneducated peasant.

"Not even simple disinterest?"

Atkinson's eyes flickered away – for a moment – from the haunting spectacle above as the tumbling wheel spokes caught fire. Murtagh was not – as he wished he was – leaning against a sapling leisurely, offering a flippant smile as he uttered the words. He was not – as Atkinson wished he was – stood inches away, his figure rigid as iron, his breath snagging as he spoke, offering a callous smile as he uttered the words. Murtagh did not smile. He stood simply: rather distantly, if anything. Atkinson was convinced he was playing with him – well, was he? That was the problem. He couldn't tell whether the man was plotting, being cunning, conniving, and a master of disguise, or nonchalant, bored, and apathetic – or simply tired.

"I don't know sir. I haven't thought about it at length." A large crack could be heard as the cart slammed into the ground. He could hear the bodies crumbling. He paused – then something spurred him on to continue. "I am no expert on the matter, but..." he stopped; he was fumbling for words: "I think there is possibly a lack of evidence to suggest it is true." Atkinson sighed, before hastening adding "sir."

"So you are a sceptic, then?"

The tone of the words was soft – perhaps hesitant, like a man afraid of his own voice. It sounded different from the blunt orders thrown haphazardly at the fifteen men of the 4th special operations Unit, lead by Colonel Roy Atkinson, four hours ago as they prepared the planned assault on the carriage. He had not spoken a word besides instruction until now. It was ill-fitting, Atkinson decided, for a man with such a coarse voice (_identical to his father's)_ to speak so gently. Unnerving, perhaps.

"I am not a sceptic as such, sir. Merely I don't particularly thrust my belief on any particular side. I am content to abide with the current theory until shown it is false."

Below, fourteen men began to investigate the crash, brushing the carnage and the debris swiftly to the side, and search for survivors. As ordered.

"If you hold a neutral position on the matter, then why follow the current theory?"

Atkinson looked bemused. Murtagh had never even spoken like this before. When was the first time Murtagh had ever questioned anything? It was confusing – just as the man had always been – confusing. Neither of the two men particularly liked confusion.

"Because one must put stock in something for now – one must pick a side, one must decide on particular path to take. I choose convention."

"Because it is simple?"

_Urgh_. Atkinson hated this – _implying that I am simple, as usual; you are condescending, self-righteous, conceited –_ but Murtagh did not look condescending, self-righteous, or conceited. He simply looked blank. Rising his head to the level of the Red Rider's, he replied.

"Because it is an easy temporary substitute for a solution. Sir."

Below them, the attack had begun. The first survivor had been found, limping, his leg swollen, his face gashed, his eyes quivering as a sword ripped through his stomach like a barbeque splint. The man gaped his last breath, flailing desperately, whitening, shivering, growing colder and colder, a fish out of water. It was slightly amusing to watch.

"Temporary easily slips into permanent, Atkinson."

"Not if one is exacting and precise with how they carry out the process, sir."

The second survivor had now been found, and brashly threw himself into the fray. Brandishing a rusted sword, he was ripped to ribbons within a few measly second, crimson sinews and blood, which circled the place where he had been standing. There was something tediously rebellious about it.

"Science is never precise. It pretends to be, but it isn't. Do you agree?"

It was the last sentence which caught Atkinson off guard. He did not know whether it was a trick question or not, or something else entirely. So he did not answer. He swallowed his lip, focusing entirely on the growing blood stain beneath them. The third soldier had now been found, crushed between splinters of hardwood, only his mouth open, wide, and screaming curses. _Fuck you fuck you fuck you_. Nothing original or interesting there, it seemed. It was silenced with a third sword slammed down his throat.

"Sir!"

A third soldier, with his blazing red tunic currently hidden, ran up to the two men. A bemused expression – possibly at seeing Atkinson and Murtagh stood together, previously _conversing_ – graced his face, before he continued in an orderly fashion: "The fourth thief cannot be found. It is presumed that the chest is with him."

"Thank you, Sergeant Locke."

It was Murtagh who answered. The man quickly bowed and returned to the incident site. Atkinson watched him return, and was not surprised to find Murtagh gone when he next looked back. He had previously stated that in case of irregularities during the operation, he would solely deal with them. Which made little tactical sense at all, really, but who was Colonel Roy Atkinson, the second son of a small and crumbling branch of nobility in the nether regions of the north, to question the son of Lord Morzan, First and Last of the Forsworn, Right Hand of the King, and previous Defender of the Realm? That was the way the Empire worked. It was wrong, but he was used to it.

Atkinson then began to ponder as he approached the blood-splattered, fiery carnage – was Murtagh disappointed with his response? Most likely, he considered, as Atkinson himself was disappointed with it too.

* * *

><p>Murtagh was twelve. He had been in Uru'baen for three months. He hated it. But then again, that was a prerequisite for his life, it seemed. And life moved on.<p>

For those three months, he had been slinking in and out of the Winter Palace's shadows, glaring bleakly from the windows of King Galbatorix's home. At first, he refused to accept it. At first he kept the padlock on _his_ doorway, closing all the shutters, and refusing to move. He would sit alone at night, accompanied only by a candle's gentle flame, and let his fingers flick through the thick, glossy pages of a book. Original make, rare collectible, currently banned, belonging to _him_. It was magical – more magical than magic. He repeated this every twilight, ending until the howling winds of midnight were a distant memory. Reading. It did not matter what. There were no longer a harsh benefactor's footsteps patrolling the halls, tapping the walls, searching for little boys – or particularly, one certain little boy – up far past their bedtimes snatching words which they should not. Murtagh was free of it now. How _bizarre _it was. How _lonely_ it was. Retiring to darkness, his eyes became further hollowed and veined by its constant grasp. The night, and its glorious and creeping arrival, was familiar company to Murtagh, in this cold and fruitless place.

But that would not last. Eventually, all those wicked, secretive belongings would gather dust. Eventually, they would resign to a forgotten bookshelf. And eventually, given free reign, free control, Murtagh would lose interest. The winter sun would break through the windows, and light would interfere. But Murtagh would always wait until the dark would come again. He refused to forget his books.

So, as the days began to dwindle longer, in the space between his training during the days, he began to wander. Dawdle. Do a thing he was not allowed, was not permitted, before. _Explore_. Murtagh had not yet seen the world – he had not been permitted to. He had been told it was a dark, unfeeling, frigid place. Maybe that was right. He was still _fascinated_ though. Like a straggling moth was brought to a flickering flame, a taste of what could have been, if he were born a creature of the day he so despised. Here, whilst he could never step outside the boundaries of the castle, he could search within them. He began to grow familiar with the Winter Palace, and its corrupt and tasty exploits became as sweet as a pepper in the Head Cook's fabulous vegetable stew. He explored all its corners, its crevices and cracks, observing the servants' chatter, blissfully unaware of a lanky, greasy-haired twelve year old lurking in the hidden corridor below. He began to creep along those great halls, unnoticed – or blatantly ignored by the very few who understood _exactly what he was_ – as if those vast, unforgiving, imperial arches were his very bones and the silly, ostentatious cloth that was draped over them was his very flesh. He was allowed to exist here. His blank looks were permitted. Different, from the animation, the constant movement, the ebb and flow of the palace. But they had a place at least.

He preferred it to before. But being ripped apart from a pack of ravenous, bloodthirsty wolves was preferable to before.

He was contemplating this thought as he was approached.

"Your name is Murtagh, correct?"

Murtagh was sitting in a disused, dust-cloaked room on the third floor, huddled between a few empty, broken crates. They probably had held weapons, once. He did not turn around to meet the stranger's gaze, and instead continued to watch the frost glazed window in front of him. It was midday, and the ice had not yet thawed.

"Splendid, absolutely splendid. I was hoping to meet you at some point or another, and I finally have."

The man, currently standing in the shadowed doorway, moved closer to the boy. He smiled – strangely contented, perhaps with some amusing witticism that had danced about in his mind.

Murtagh did not turn around.

"I should clarify – I've been aware of your presence for a while – and you may not know it, but you're surprisingly difficult to catch, young sir. Far more _inventive_ than your usual street urchin – I am not, of course, putting you on any standard among _that sort_, no, of course not. You are from much higher stock, much nobler rank, I am sure you are aware. Yet..."

The man gestured to go on, his mouth open, ready to pounce into monologue – but he stopped. Murtagh had not yet turned around.

"You know, your father was exactly the same at your age."

Whatever reaction the stranger was expecting, it was not what he received. Murtagh turned around, and pulled an expression – not of anger, not of a boy ready to bear his fists, swing hopelessly at him, streaming with tears, swimming in his own angst – but of disgust. And slight horror – not abject horror, but slight. It was an expression that completely questioned the stranger's words, made him question them himself, sneered at them as if they were filth. _What do you _actually_ know, you presumptuous git?_ Yes, that is what it said, and he could imagine the boy pulling a sly smile beside them, the stranger had decided. It mocked him. No – further – It laughed at him.

In later years, if the same accusation was made, Murtagh would pretend to raise his voice occasionally, as if a very sore nerve had supposedly been trodden on. He would learn hide his laughter impeccably well. Often though, especially during the war, he simply could not be arsed, and just threw out a derisive snort to whomever it concerned. He got the accusation often enough to not give a damn.

The stranger smiled again, strangely contented, perhaps having just received an unexpected gift, such as a small trinket or piece of wasteful jewellery.

"I am glad to have met you, Murtagh."

Except, he had hardly met the boy. No less, the man turned to leave. Murtagh himself turned back to glaring at the glazed window. He would not see the stranger, the smiling stranger with gentle, flowing blonde locks and bulbous blue eyes, again.

The very next day, dawn was bright and sparkling, and all the frost melted quickly to dew. Murtagh was introduced to a swordsman with a wild mane of curly, greying hair, completely in contrast to his conduct. He was later told his name was Tornac.

"I have been given orders to instruct you, five days of the week, primarily in combat. This will continue until the King is content with your progress, most likely until adulthood. I have been told you already have been given prior instruction on all of these. It would be a shame to waste talent you already have."

This was correct. Murtagh had been thoroughly educated and taught in all areas of a modern education – swordplay, marksmanship, history, politics, debate and oratory skills, sport, the magical sciences, and even languages. He nodded in response. Tornac let out what would become a very familiar crooked smirk, slightly amused – the main sign of approval.

"This is Roy. He shall be your sparring partner today. I would like to assess how well you deal with an opponent for now."

The boy was light-haired and half a head smaller than Murtagh. He guessed that Roy was a year younger than him – probably, guessing by his scowl, a second and therefore useless son of a noble, dumped in Uru'baen to be later trained as an officer in the army, to be knighted if he was lucky. Murtagh, it seemed, had picked up a lot from gossiping servants.

Neither of them spoke to each other. Roy was content to scowl, and Murtagh to stare blankly. When they fought, Murtagh won all but one of their matches.

* * *

><p>Dorian was running. <em>This is new. This is certainly new.<em> Most ambushes did not involve something _innovative_ as unpicking a horse's mind, instilling panic and chaos, and then letting all _hell_ break loose. No energy required - just deftness. Improvisation, it seemed – very sloppy, very careless, very stupid. But then again, weren't the Varden becoming so too? War made people stupid, he had decided. Including himself. He was still surprised, though. True name slaves of the Empire weren't renowned for their inventive tactics. Then again, what was a horse but an animal, a possession, and a slave? It was _disgusting_ that they would kill their own kind as such, he mused.

But back to the issue at hand. Dorian was running. This eventuality – of chaos erupting – he had prepared for. A simple softening spell near landing, and quickly grabbing the box – now _his box,_ now _all his_ – had sorted him out. He directed the gravitational energy in the parallel direction – away. Simple. But tiring. And now he was running.

His feet pulled him forward, stumbling around bulging roots, grappling through branches, hoisting him forward – always forward. He had no idea where. He had no idea how. But he was running – somewhere, somehow – to someplace. In dear, grasping hope, that he and his box, his dearest box, would persevere. What was a soldier without hope, but a mindless drone, an insolent slave?

Mist began to clog his vision, stifle his senses – but he kept on running, he kept on pounding the floor. He couldn't stop. Not now. Not for a bloody basic weather spell. Clever though – _clever_. Because he couldn't see anything. Nothing. And he was blindly running, blindly fleeing, blindly holding in a maddening scream.

Empire goons weren't meant to be clever. Empire goons weren't meant to stalk through the mists, the shadows, to dive from tree to tree behind him, to crack twigs and snag plants and rustle leaves. He could hear it. He could hear him skulking in the black; he could hear the predator slowly unfurl a claw, a point. The stench of blood sizzled, wafting through the air before it had been shed. And he was the prey, oh god, he was the prey.

_Oh god oh god oh god oh god – _

Dorian could not run any longer. Maybe it was because his entire body was shivering, shaking, madly, uncontrollably, undeniably... it shook him to his naked, brittle bones, crippled his legs, his knees, his joints, and rendered him senseless.

Maybe it was because he was absolutely terrified.

He clung to the box, wrapped his frantic, shaking arms around the clunk of wood, and sat in a hollow of a roomy trunk. He listened.

A thump.

A thump.

A thump.

A thump.

A thump.

It wasn't Dorian's heartbeat. It was louder, darker, more grotesque. He could hear those thumps strain and groan, as the sinews of life were shredded in seconds, with a blade sharp and glistening with the forest's blood.

_They're cutting down trees. They're cutting down trees to get me._ _They know where I am. They're trying to throw me – to shake me, to throw me, to scare me – but I'm scared already. Oh god, I'm scared. Oh god, save me this. Please. Kill me now – just kill me, kill me, kill me kill me kill me –_

A flash –

A mind lurched towards him, sprang at him, grasping Dorian at the chest. _I can't breathe_. It was quick. It pounced and grappled at his memories, ravenously devouring each event, each detail, each timing, each calculated action and each response. _Kill me_. Dorian could not shake it. _Kill me._ Dorian could not throw it off. _Just kill me already, god dammit._

The predator stopped, squeezing tightly at Dorian's mind, holding his precious thoughts, his precious dreams, his precious ideas, within its gaping jaws. It responded: _No_.

Its voice was coarse and thick and deep – and undeniably belonging to one person. He had heard people speak of it like the entrance to hell. He had heard people describe it: a ravaged, barren tunnel which led to somewhere deep, somewhere forgotten, somewhere carnal. Brutal. Sickening.

It was Morzan's voice.

_They've sent the Spawn after me?_ This was ridiculous. This was incredulous. The box – the box _must _contain something of worth, something of immense, unpredictable, incredible... Dorian knew what it was. Dorian knew exactly what it was.

His throat was slit before he could utter what it was.

_I've already prepared dinner, Thorn, _Murtagh thought with a grim stare.

* * *

><p>A week ago, Murtagh received a letter. The seal was gold and red. The King's seal. He was far too used to it now. He brought it to the mahogany desk of his study, and left it there. He continued to spend the day – writing reports, filing messages, receiving statements, organising oral speeches, planning operation details, mapping co-ordinates, ordering subordinates – and doing anything to avoid reading the rich sheet of parchment which folded neatly on his desk. The sun ceased to illuminate the dark wooden panelling of Murtagh's study when he finally unfolded the letter. Instead, small candle wick alit in gold lay by his side.<p>

Murtagh scanned the content quickly, picking words and phrases beneath the King's rambling. He was too used to it, after three very long months. _Very important box _was one. _Varden bandits _was another. _By any means necessary _was another. Obviously, gallivanting around the edge of the Spine looking for an obscure box was a greater necessity than defending Gi'lead or Belatona, nowadays.

He withheld a long, drawn out sigh. The Empire's tactics had ceased to make any sense. Or rather, the King's – it was no secret that Murtagh was practically managing the war effort singlehandedly. And Murtagh had really ceased to care. He continued to read the letter. Something about the plans and co-ordinates and the detailed instructions already taken care of – enclosed, in fact – and something about awfully specific instructions regarding some quick Varden scout attacks which Murtagh _specifically _had to deal with.

He was to work with... Murtagh's gaze scanned the chaotically scripted scrawl of the King's, searching for the specific information... the 4th Special Operations unit led by Colonel R. Atkinson.

_Ack!_

He tossed the instructions aside, papers sliding over the floor.

_What?_ Another voice had asked.

_It's nothing – just nothing. I'm being... childish._ Murtagh's brow furrowed, fingers tapping distractedly on a table edge, swallowing and pulling a distorted, painful grimace._ Go away Thorn._

The King seemed to take pleasure in pairing Atkinson and Murtagh together for Murtagh's various little 'missions'. Which usually amounted to fruitless escapades in the country over pointless matters. _Gah_. It was frustrating. Particularly because the King was fully aware that Atkinson and Murtagh generally _did not like each other_. Or at least, Atkinson loathed him. Murtagh really didn't care. It was possibly due to the duo having known each other for a longer time than usual. History, bizarrely, fascinated Galbatorix.

Murtagh sighed. He picked up the letter again. A final word – a threat, far from hollow, casually referred to. If Murtagh did not arrive on time, he would expect to hear the _signal_.

He shuddered, hands shaking – and put the letter down. The thought of the signal always rippled down his spine, brushing each rung of bone with gnarled claws.

Unfurling an enclosed map, he searched for the planned co-ordinates of the operation. It took him a moment to realise that a town he recognised, _Haeye-on-the-Water,_ was within a five mile radius of the planned operation.

He swore aloud. Twice.

* * *

><p>The mist settled. Murtagh gazed out at the newly made clearing. Broken trees lay stricken, their corpses slain by <em>Misery<em>.

"Was this really necessary, _sir?_"

Murtagh did not answer Atkinson's query. He instead ignored everything else around him, as he was accustomed to doing, and slowly unpicked the box from the dead man's grasp. Wasn't it obvious? _I'm supposed to cause carnage._

Are you?

_Thorn, get the fuck away from me._

Are you? It repeated.

_Thorn – _Murtagh stopped. It wasn't Thorn that spoke. _This is a joke. This is one huge ridiculous joke. That's why I'm here. Dead people are _hilarious_._

He wasn't laughing though.

_I'm here to cause carnage and chaos and misery and for people to laugh at it and enjoy it._

Nobody was enjoying it though. The excuse sounded pitifully weak even to Murtagh's ears.

_I'm a monster, and I'm the entertainment._

He wasn't a monster though.

_I'm a monster. I'm a disgusting and cruel and horrible monster._ _I kill people who don't deserve to die in horrifying ways and feel little remorse or sympathy for them. I'm disgusting._

Was he?

_I'm disgusting. I told you Thorn – fuck off._

But it wasn't Thorn questioning him.

_I'm disgusting. I'm cruel. I'm barbaric. Do you get the point yet? Do you see the 'DO NOT TRESPASS' sign written all over me? Are you so slow, so unfeeling, so fucking thick that you haven't seen the obvious fact that I'm a complete tool – one made for spilling your blood? I. Am. A. Monster. That's it. That's all that needs to be said. _

No reply.

_Oh, damn you. _

The box exploded into a fit of fire.

"Murtagh!"

The flames devoured the lid, spitting it up into the air, but the charred base remained intact, smouldering on the wooded floor.

_That was my doing. That was my fault._

"What the devil were you thinking? What on earth – what the hell – what is wrong with you?"

Murtagh ignored Atkinson's cries. He was used to the complaint.

"You didn't need to do that at all."

"Yes I did."

"The King will – "

"I don't care about what the bloody King does to me."

That was a bare-faced lie and both of them knew it. Murtagh did not play the rebel well. It made his voice clumsy, even if his face remained completely blank. Atkinson sighed.

"What's in the box that was so worth protecting then?"

Murtagh hadn't looked yet. He glanced inside.

Inside the box was absolutely nothing.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"_Nothing."_

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Here's a long chapter for you guys after waiting for so long! (and you'll have to wait a week for the next whilst I'm in Spain). I thought about splitting this one up, but I like the ending too much. Lots and lots and lots of Murtagh. And a lot of build up for what? No plot development! I hope you're frustrated as Murtagh on this one XD. This was a beginning sequence, and the true story will begin proper as soon as Murtagh gets back to Uru'baen. It was very necessary though for me to establish a few characters and a few vital ideas. Good writing practice too. I haven't proof-read this one yet, so it might be sloppy.

Thanks for reading, and please review!_  
><em>


	10. Silence

**X:** Silence

_"Pigs' feet. Delicious. They're a lot like children's feet, actually."_ - _Luka, The Tiger's Wife, Téa Obreht_

* * *

><p>Ceri, the innkeeper's daughter, would take charge of the bar on market days in Haeye-on-the-Water. Market days were usually the quietest, for reasons she didn't bother to consider. Perhaps the people of Haeye were more aware of how starved and skeletal their purses were once their strings had been prised firmly open. Perhaps the travellers through Haeye preferred to remain firmly sober so close to the Spine. Ceri wouldn't know – she was more interested in the <em>person<em> than the _people_. If it was Dai, the southbank butcher, whose purse which was lacking, and his frail, jittering wife muttered a few stray words of gossip about _lean_ times and people wanting _bread_ _not pork loins_, whilst scratching furiously at her neckscarf that hid the blackened scars of a starving man – _now _Ceri was interested. She would lean across the polished bartop on her pointy elbows, listening intently to whispers and rumour. It was exhilarating! – of course, she was usually caught, and the attempt to flash an empty chest where billowing buxom may have filled given a few years (if she were lucky) usually made the men roll their eyes as opposed to loosen their tongues as they supposedly did at the sight of a beautiful woman. Her quick-tongued father called it _being dense_.

This, lamentably, was probably the reason Ceri, wide-eyed and curly-haired Ceri, the girl with the permanent expression of a frightened doe startled by the sudden arrival of a blazing blue dragon egg in a tranquil forest, would guard the front on Market day. The few souls that haunted the bar would ask for simple ales, toss a few pennies extra into the tin, and hunch gloomily in a torn armchair, stuffing bursting from the seams. _Sulking_, Ceri would call it, as she scrubbed ferociously at the worktop. Haeye was not the happiest town at the best of times and she did not like to be reminded of it. She longed for a mysterious, intriguing, and possibly devilishly handsome traveller to sweep into the inn, and whisper a few incredible stories of distant lands and worlds far and wide across fine wine – just about _somewhere _where the skies weren't grey and overcast, and the sheep weren't gaunt with plague. This was completely unrealistic. Rosalyn knew this, and didn't care.

At this moment, a mysterious, intriguing, although not particularly handsome stranger with a mane of greying hair stumbled into the inn. A twinkling smile graced the girl's face – she had _heard_ of this particular stranger.

"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"

The response was silence.

"Excuse _me," _Ceri repeated, "Do you perhaps go by the name of Jude?" She bit her lip. "I mean, I've heard of you before – well, heard you being gossiped about, townsfolk are awful gossips – and you seem to match the description everyone places on you..."

The response was silence.

"I mean, I've _heard _you travel through town on odd occasion – usually only ever to visit Wombat, which people consider very _strange_ and very _unusual_ itself, so if you aren't, I mean, I never heard _Jude _to ever visit a tavern, he don't drink we think – a rare enough thing in itself, y'know – so sorry if I've mistaken... "

The response was silence.

"Do you work for the Empire?"

Ceri regretted the words blurting out from her mouth, spluttering so bluntly. They dropped like a stone and lay there, the weight hanging in the air. The man did not respond to them at all.

_It was what everyone in town's thinking. Jude's a spy, Jude's a hired crook, Jude's a messenger. And I just spat in his face about it. _

"Should I pour you something at any rate...? Just some beer?"

She answered her own question by doing so. She watched the man, perched uneasily on a barstool, his expression dreary-eyed, almost _desolate_ – then again, it could just be blankness, Ceri was never good with faces – slurping his beer almost violently, chugging it down like a witches' brew, a vile medicine. He looked like he was going to choke. But he didn't.

This didn't look like Jude. What she had heard of the man was someone blank-faced, stony-eyed – but behind that animated enough, good-natured enough, a little quirky and often lost in thought despite the masks. This man wasn't lost in thought. He was simply _lost_.

The man finished his drink, panting aloud.

"How many do ye need?" It seemed to be a _need_ kind of situation, not a _want_ one.

Evidently it was the right question. He answered:

"Enough to carry me off my feet."

The voice – _Jude's voice,_ she corrected herself mentally: _he ain't an animal_ – seemed heavily obscured, hastily thrown together, an almost ominous mix of things. The man himself sounded nearly terrified by it, by how _monstrous _it sounded, the sound of his own words foreign to him. A quick magician with the powers of a maestro and the specialisation in cloaking magics would have immediately recognised exactly who this man pretending to be Jude was – the son of Morzan – and how _stupidly_, how _sloppily _the disguise had been put together, as if Morzanspawn had been _waiting _to be found this time around, visiting somewhere so public and almost _parading _his true identity, that as the devil's son incarnate. But since when was a magician like that ever common?

Ceri was no magician. It just sounded slightly creepy to her. It didn't quell her fascination, though, as she watched the man drown himself in alcohol until the sky had been burnt to a crisp, black as charcoal, and it was midnight.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** And I am back! Expect a longer chapter tomorrow or Tuesday - if in the unlikely situation there isn't one, it won't be for a week, I'm afraid. I'm heading up to Scotland on Tuesday and will be there a week at most. After which, I am free until school starts until September, where I plan to really get cracking on with this fic. I spent most of Spain writing this and two other chapters (yes, _two_)_,_ which need heavy edits before they go out to the world. Ceri is a Welsh name by the way, as is Dai (I would have called him Daffyd, but I think that's too obvious), and Lloyd... and there is a real town by the name of Hay :P. It's just nothing like Haeye - it's far richer and prettier, and not a product of the impoverished Welsh mining valleys. Although Hay is known for its bookshops: which is why Murtagh goes to Haeye in the first place, no? Books.

Onto reviews:

**Squidcats:** Heh, I dislike using Chekov's guns myself, as they usually are tackily done - but this box will go onto do a little more character development. As for who ran the war... I actually didn't think of that one! The war itself only really launched at the Battle of the Burning Plains: it wasn't even Guerilla warfare prior to that, so knowing Galbatorix, the position probably jumped person to person very rapidly - basically, whoever he felt would make an entertaining job of it, chosen on a whim, and most likely thrown out a few months later for incompetence after Galbatorix tired of them. Durza was most likely the last until Murtagh came into view. Morzan would have definitely ran it all were he still alive, though. I'm also really glad that you're enjoying this as well, and I'm also glad that it comes across as what it is - a slightly disturbing fairytale. That's sort of what I'm aiming for.

**Restrained Freedom:** I'm glad last chapter wasn't as confusing for you. It's probably my favourite so far ^_^.


	11. Eleven is a Rational Number

**XI**: Eleven is a Rational Number

_"Maths is like love; a simple idea, but it can get complicated." - A close friend.  
><em>

* * *

><p>She did not look back. She did not look back at the stranger. She did not look back at the hall. She did not look back at the guardsmen and the squires and the ladies in waiting as she ran at blundering speed, as her feet pummelled the ground and her lungs swallowed catapults of air. Arya returned to her tower without looking at all.<p>

She surrendered to that suffocating staircase, the ink-stained black which spiralled up to the room – _her_ room – with relief. She grasped the shadows of those coiling steps, embraced them, swallowed them; she let them stroke her skin. She was a creature of the shadows now. It was better than being seen.

The door to the room – _her room her room her room –_ was still hung ajar, aghast. She had left it exactly like that, in a frozen state at shock. The _Princess_ had left her tower _herself_. No, _no_, that is not how the story should go. That is not how Arya should have acted – Arya had _sworn _not to act like that. But she did it anyway. She _rebelled_ – acting as if the noughts on the end of her age came to nothing, and she was really nothing but a child.

The room was exactly as she had left it. The door was open, the mirror unmoved, the small creases in the bedsheets hers alone. The drapes, silvery-white, still hovered enchantingly. Nothing had changed. Nothing had moved, not even a fraction of a millimetre – or inch, she should say, as she should be using _Imperial _measurements now. The 'pristine white', the spotless silver, the silky light of her room had remained: untainted, untouched, _clean_.

She slumped on her goose-feather pillows, on her smooth satin sheets. It was a graceful _slump_, an elf-like _slump_, if such a thing were possible, Arya did it immaculately regardless. She was very conscious of the fact that her thin, cotton dress was not 'pristine white'. It was not even 'off-white' or 'magnolia', but was filthy, stained with black and grey after half-an-hour of _rebelliousness_. Arya shuddered. She did not like dirty clothing. It made her slightly queasy.

She laid there, her eyes fixed to the ceiling. The sun was now setting –

_Wait, what?_

She sat up suddenly. As if to scold her, orange light sprinkled from a windowpane glazed over her eyes. _The sun is setting. Why is this happening? If I left this room at mid-afternoon, and took no longer than an hour, then the sun should _not _be setting. It is summer – the sun setting at this time is completely irrational._

She moved silently towards the window. It was still open. _Exactly as I left it._

Beyond, the world had been bathed in orange: the sky swept with layers of watercolour, the earth hidden behind a lavish veil. Wisps of clouds trailed above, sporting exotic bruises of pinks and reds. And to the west, a vast crimson bulb engorged the concrete horizon.

_It is beautiful. _

Arya had travelled pole to pole, skirted borders and traipsed through forests and caves and shorelines – but she had never stood in the centre of it all, never the dusty wildfires of the desert. And she had never witnessed the majesty of a desert sunset. _It is very beautiful_, she added, her previous comment now seeming... somewhat wanting.

The sounds of the city had softened now, swept away by the winds into a gentle burr, with only a few distant cattle bells and cathedral chimes singing underneath. It had, perhaps, quietened in a moment of awe, a moment of reflection, before the city would begin alight again as the taverns hoisted open their doors and the stars began to twinkle.

_It is evening. _No, more, it was _undeniably _evening. It even smelt like a summer's evening in a bustling human city – it _stank_. And Arya was stood breathing in that nauseous reek, the final culmination of a sweaty and disgusting day, rigid and unmoving. A statue. She stood, repeating the unutterable, unthinkable, _irrational_ thought. For seven minutes she stood and repeated in dry monotone:

_It is evening._

A human would have described her expression as 'incredulous'. A crueller one, perhaps a dwarf, might have said 'disturbing'.

After the seven minutes had passed, she retreated to the satin sheets, lying between them with eyes wide open.

* * *

><p>She awoke. It was not even sunrise, and she <em>woke<em>.

* * *

><p><em>Elves did not <em>wake_. Elves did not even _sleep_. Elves had waking dreams._

* * *

><p>She was shivering, gripping the flimsy, sweat-drenched fabric of her dress to her – she clung to it. She was no longer lying in the bed. She did not trust it. The thick, 'pristine white' of those monstrously oversized bedsheets bristled beneath her. It was <em>uncreased<em>, it was _unwrinkled, _it was _completely blank_. And it would swallow her, engulf her, clobber her, beat her back and forth, back and forth, a white, frosting, angry tide smacking her around. She was an abandoned, second-favourite ragdoll of a spoilt child – no, a _good child_; she was the bewitcher; she was the corrupting, sinister rag doll, abandoned _as she should be_ (as you should be Arya) – left to sink, gradually, into the wet dollops of sand. And she would drown, drown senselessly in the white.

In summary, she did not like those bedsheets. _You are being irrational again. _(There you go Arya isn't that your favourite word Arya irrational irrational _irrational)_.

She clenched the fingers of one hand. They were very cold. _You'll die of hypothermia. _The whole motion looked incredibly painful, as if the blunt, imperfect nails wanted to scrape the skin of her palm off. She clenched them harder. _Who ever heard of an elf that died of hypothermia?_

* * *

><p>Arya stirred again. Without a noise made, she closed the door. She did not like it open.<p>

* * *

><p>She could still watch – <em>feel –<em> those shadows crawl beneath the cracks, seep through the mottled wood, as she watched it darken, and darken, and darken, and darken. She could have watched it for hours.

She did watch it for hours.

* * *

><p>Arya slammed her head into the wall.<p>

_There is no point or purpose in leaving now. I cannot be seen. I cannot find lodgings or an inn or a house to sleep in because I am firstly invisible and secondly it is the dead of night with nothing stirring or moving, and I would most likely be stabbed on sight. If I could be seen in the first place. No one can see me. No can hear me. No one notices me: not at all, not even if I tried_ – Arya was not sure if she wanted to try – _and if I did find my people, the elves, after days and weeks and plausibly months of travelling, they would not find me. I have no idea whether this is a permanent state or a temporary one or simply an extensive delusion, and I need to thoroughly prepare for the eventuality – _

– _And this is the exact reason why I should attempt to escape to the Varden as an elfin ambassador would as there is no telling of what could next happen, and by remaining next to the filthy quarters of the Dark King I am putting myself and the war effort at incredible risk and possibly sabotaging all – _

– _The Empire has not noticed me: it will never notice me. The Empire would have made provisions and broken if it had been so inclined. I am invisible here and I am completely insignificant in the grand scheme – _

– _Do not be foolish, you are far from 'completely insignificant': you are being petulant and childish and selfish again by assuming such and you are being childish and selfish by relying on parameters of some temporary spell which you cannot trust –_

– _Temporary spell? It could be permanent, it could last forever, you are not thinking of alternatives or opportunities or pitfalls: what if I stole the bed, the food, of a starving child? Would they disappear forever too? Would I ruin and blight their poor, pathetic, snivelling, lives, their _miserable _ –_

– _You are a deluded, sensationalist – _Arya despised that word for irrational reasons –_ and completely–_

– _Why break something already broken? Why ruin – _

– _You are broken. _

– _You are self-absorbed. _

– _You are despicable. _

_Despicable._

_The thought only makes you partially nauseous. You have been murdering children since you were a child yourself. The thought of breaking their slender, innocent necks means nothing, it means _nothing, _to you. You are callous, you are completely, and utterly –_

Arya let loose a long, arching wail that rumbled as it screamed. She was trembling, trembling as she released it into the black, black night. It couldn't defeat it, that roar, completely unmistakeable roar. It was a cry of pain.

Her fingertips shuddered. But her face remained emotionless and fixed.

_I always do this. I always, always –_

Arya slammed her head into the wall again. Her fingers tore ravenously through her knotted hair.

_Your mind is so noisy, do you know that Arya?_

She turned to face the ornate, floor length mirror on the opposite side of the room, and glared at the reflection, the gaunt, black-eyed, shivering reflection.

_Noisy._

* * *

><p>At one point, she woke up to hear music. Orchestral music – the cascades of strings and the piping breaths of wind, and a lone soloist trilling, wavering on one note... it was faint. Like a ghost of a sound, a ghost of a melody. It definitely was not real.<p>

_This is simply becoming ludicrous now._

She threw herself back into a twisting, shallow sleep. Or a waking dream. Or both, together, at the same time.

_Insane. This is insane. This is not rational at all._

* * *

><p>Arya began to count. Seconds. <em>It has surely been too long since night began. Even excluding possible exaggerating factors, it has been at least seven hours since the sun has set. Approximately. <em>This was the rational reason why she was doing it.

* * *

><p>In time, she stared only at the wall. It was the only thing she liked about the room. The bricks were vast, regular slabs of grey stone. Each was of a roughly equal size, although sanded fairly haphazardly, as if the mason was stricken with grief, lolling in bereavement when he chiselled at these stones. She could imagine him, under a cold, scathing winter sun, throwing himself at them one by one, with a miserable gutso, a lopsided effort, and only half a heart.<p>

Arya usually did not imagine anything in such detail. It was disquieting that she would imagine something in such rich, vivid imagery. It made the wispy, black hairs on the edge of her neck stand to attention.

Which was why she was staring at a brick wall.

The texture, she decided, was her favourite thing about it. The moonlight – oh god, the moonlight, the _moonlight; _it was milky and spotless and cold and she _hated _it – brushed against the bricks in gloss, making their surfaces smooth and slick, with an unearthly sheen. She could not tell whether slaves had ruthlessly polished each and every brick with peeling fingers, or whether a second coating, and _invisible coating_, had been applied. Yet when she pressed her white palms to the wall, she could only feel... something rough. It was ragged, covered in pock-marks and scars; after too many years of watching the rain fall down its face, it had crumbled. She could trace, with her fingertips, those kinks and bumps and notches, where water had once trickled down a thousand years ago. They were tired, those stones. They had been hauled from their long forgotten homes, snatched away by the saws and chisels of the quarrymen, and cut into identical, evenly shaped blocks. Never perfect, never exact though – you could sand away at them until they were nothing but sand, and they'd still be imperfect, incorrect. And then they were piled on top of each other, trapped in an interlocking puzzle, glued together, and smothered in gloss. They were to stand broken and erect for eternity. No more crumbling; no more decay. They were immortal now.

_It must be miserable. It must be miserable to live like a brick._

They could not even groan.

_Stones cannot feel, Arya._

They could not ever weep.

_They cannot feel. They do not live_.

Maybe they could.

Arya slammed her head into the wall again. This time it bled a little.

* * *

><p>After sixty-nine thousand, three hundred and twenty-something seconds, Arya lost count.<p>

Sixty-nine_. _

__Sixty-nine. __

She hated the number sixty-nine. For irrational reasons only_._ It was such a _vulgar_ number.

* * *

><p>If there was one thing she hated more than the white, it was the black. And that was all that the night was made up of.<p>

She would avoid the white, cower from it, avert her eyes. The splinters of white gleaming on the armoire handles, the speckled light caught in the window panes, the flicker of silver on those shimmering drapes, dancing in the wind... she would avoid it. She did not like it; she would throw her head between her knees, or press her nose into the stone walls and inhale the dirt and the grime. But she could not help but let her eyes wander and peer when it came to the black, watching the black, watching the shadows change shape and stature, watching them swell to enormous, bat-like shapes, pointed and insidious, twisting over the walls and the floors and the oak armoire, lurching towards her, spiralling towards her; they were coils of slithering snakes, hissing; thick, twisting branches of vines that would swirl round her pale, fragile, _snappable_ neck, that delicate swan-like neck that would choke with a clench of a fist, and would be chopped off like a moulding, cankerous bud, a sickly sweet flowerhead. The way those shadows would slide from beneath the cracks of the doorway, seep from those fiendish, those hellish steps that were so _brilliant_ in the day, but now they would sneak, but now they would infest her room: it was like a cold, grey, frigid jungle.

They were lethal, those shadows, the black and grey shadows, their arms, their wandering hands, clawing fingernails, were sterilised blades with bloodied handles. She felt them creeping, she felt their grisly breath down her nape – they smelt of old, fizzled cigarettes covered in burnt stew and slop picked from a gutter.

Sometimes, they would touch her. It was like ice. It was like ice that would never thaw, that blackness.

And sometimes they would wrap around her naked, white fingers, moving slowly, moving closely as the gradually twisted around them and her heart pattered, stuck thick in her throat, unable to swallow, unable to _breathe_.

_They would touch her_.

The worst thing, the most loathsome, lamentable thing, was that slow, sinking feeling that Arya could have been fantasising it all. She could have been fantasising, _fantasising,_ what was shuffling in at the corner of her eyes, what turned her skin blue and make droplets of sweat freeze. Arya was not sure what was more terrifying.

* * *

><p><em>I want to go home. I want to go home. <em>

For the first time in thirty-one years, _she wanted to go home_.

* * *

><p>She could still hear it. Music. In the distance.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **The chapter I said I'd get up for you today - pretty interesting, eh?

**Reviews!:**

**Squidcats: **Yeah, I had doubts about that blue egg line, but I needed a medieval equivalent of 'deer startled by headlights', so why not 'deer startled by dragon egg'? I probably shouldn't have put it in there, it was a mouthful to read anyway. I'm also glad Ceri feels fleshed out enough - trying to write a somewhat likeable, but rather shallow character is hard. The IC often feels really insular - a lot of the concerns revolve around family matters, on romance and relationships between mothers and sons, and I figure putting in some PoVs revolving around people completely removed from that helps you realise that there's a war going on and that there's more distinctions that 'supports the Varden' or 'supports the Empire'. **  
><strong>

**EminemBitches: **Oh, I totally agree with you: next book ExA is going to happen, no doubt. I sort of take liberty with backstory we haven't heard yet - so a lot of Selena and Morzan and Brom's past is completely original here. Arya too, and considering the circumstances which she'll meet Murtagh, and her own slightly messed up mental state, the two getting together will make a lot of sense. The two have quite a lot in common though anyway - they're both loners, both can be very cold and unfeeling, and both have a lot of secrets and unspoken emotions. Hopefully you'll like how it all turns out.

**Restrained Freedom:** Have I mentioned that I love how you comment on every chapter of everything you're following? It's awesome. As for getting drunk of his feet... well, I'll try and cover than. Murtagh as a rule avoids alcohol like the plague - he used to insist on never touching it, although after coming back to the Empire his view on it has relaxed, partially because he's having to come to turns with being his father's son and living a pre-destined life, and his resolve to rebel so ardently has given in. That doesn't explain why he's getting completely hammered here though. In this instance - well, if you noticed by how slapdash his disguise was last chapter, and how silent he was, he's... recovering from the revelation that he's gone and wasted so much time and effort to find the box, and it's a case of the straw that broke the camel's back. He's honestly livid and the pressure is finally getting to hime. There will be a Murtagh PoV in... two or three chapters time to explain all of this. Where FINALLY the plot will start. Wooooo!**  
><strong>


	12. Eldest

**XII**: Eldest

_"A brother is a friend given by nature." - unknown.  
><em>

* * *

><p>They were a far cry from those clumsy footpaths, strewn with mud-splattered leaves that arched and swerved across the Northern valleys: remnants of ancient roads formed by ancient magicians. They weren't graced by ancient history or magical fortune. The Badlands were not Carvahall. They were <em>bad <em>– they were empty, dry, and most of all, _poor_. Poor was reason enough to be filled with disgust.

'Poor' being a word always emphasised – Pa had always stressed how damn _lucky_ they were that they owned their _own_ land, and weren't a family of poverty-stricken, starving sons of a bitch who were kissing the feet of a landlord and kneeling in their own shit. Carvahall was _revolutionary_, he had always said, although in the scathing, bitter tone he always used to describe anything political – or perhaps, anything he had ever said. Years of toiling away at _his_ _own _land, watching _his_ _own_ future being held ransom by the merciless fires of the sun, the scathing glare of the moon, and the rain: this was life as a revolutionary. Those chilling downpours would last for weeks and would wash his livelihood, his starving children away as quickly as an aristocrat could snap his silk-gloved fingers, as quickly as a hired assassin could slit a dirt farmer's throat. Pa never had much to be happy about.

It was difficult for Roran to remember anything about his father now, having shuffled through so many foreign fields like herded cattle. These empty, broken roads, paved barely, with broken pieces of stone and dirt (the dry kind, the only kind in the southern edge of the Empire, as opposed to the sludgy, wet kind at home) mingling together, were nothing like the ones thousands of miles away, in valley that was his father's birthplace, bread and coffin. These dirt tracks were supposedly the main trade routes – wide, long, and straight as bean sprouts – but not a trader's cart had been seen for weeks.

They were less than two days from Belatona now, with only burnt eucalyptus trees, collapsed onto the roads in the heat, as company. He wasn't disappointed – well, actually, he was. The son of a young dirt farmer had been told of great stories of the Empire's towering, bustling, lively cities – probably exaggerations, as most sixth-hand country tales were – and had hoped to be amazed at the off-chance he'd finally see them. In reality, he'd been disturbed, almost scared by what was great, and let down by what wasn't, so far, dogged by constant longing for the ashes that were now his home. Pa would have had some wise crack to say about that.

It was not only the roads, the parched olive groves, the distant fields of abandoned vineyards whose owners fled weeks ago in fear of a merciless hellish bloodbath, which were different. Even the evening skies had changed: after the sun had set, the turned purple and grey and red and strange, with a vast, yellowish, almost cheese-like moon hung in the sky. It was a distorted reflection, a shattered mirror (not that Roran had ever seen a mirror) to the stark black and blue of the skies above in Palancar valley.

The stars, though, twinkled the same.

* * *

><p>"Ro'! Ro'! Ro'! Look! Look! Look!" The boy danced with the word, lolled them about on the end of the tongue, spun them around rapidly, then, finally, cut them off with a sudden flick.<p>

"Shuddup."

"Ruh-Ruh-Ruh-Ro'!"

Roran looked. His younger boy had a maple leaf balanced exactly on the tip of his nose.

"Shuddup, Egg-face."

* * *

><p>Back when summer days were cool and wet like muddy feet dipped in a stream, and 'war' was something boys did with whittled down sticks and stray pebbles, and usually ended with someone crying and calling Ma, Roran liked to go fishing. It was something Pa did when he could – that was reason enough. Sitting at the stump of a spindly tree, with a straw hat (borrowed from Ma) sat crooked, chewing sunflower seeds because that's what fishermen <em>did<em>, he would fish. It mainly consisted of Roran swatting at the humongous bluebottles which whizzed over the water, and muttering to himself.

"Stop your blabbering," Pa would grumble, "You'll scare the fish."

But, Roran protested, fishing was never about catching fish. And besides, Pa did it too – softly grumbling about barley stocks and recent summer storms and the broken wagon that had needed fixing for months now and _god knows how we'll feed the boys this year Marian_. This was a ritual Ma tended to smile wryly at – a gentle smile, a woman's smile, a smile he'd know he'd never understand even years after she had left the world. Pa's grumblings, especially when life was so sweet, so plentiful, was not something he truly understood either. But Pa did it. And that was reason enough for Roran to do it too.

Of course, the magic was ruined as soon as he had to take his _baby brother_ along. Because he was his brother then.

His younger brother was a shy shadow that tended to waddle behind him in oversized hand-me-down tunics. On the _odd_ occasion when the stubborn, intent face would break, it would break with laughter and a smile like the sun. 'Odd' was a word you would place with Eragon – he never quite _got _it. _Away with the faeries_. He never even copied in the right way. When he fished, he perched on the branch of a willow directly above Roran, making birdie noises, with a straw hat several sizes too large and flopped over his eyes as he bobbed his head up and down, and sucking his sunflower so hard that he nearly choked. Finally, whilst whacking a huge fly with a fist, he tumbled forward from his perch into the river with a _splat_. Roran found this perfectly hilarious until his brother caught pneumonia four days later and nearly died. That wasn't funny.

Eragon was like that. Roran liked him enough – he'd never tell anyone, that was sacrilegious, that was _blasfemmy_ – but beneath the scraps and squabbles that Eragon usually started by clinging too hard and Roran by hitting him back, he really did like his _baby brother_. They'd tell each other nearly everything – well, Eragon did, at least. Roran would listen to him involuntarily, but still listened to him. And Roran would take him everywhere – slightly grudgingly, but slightly proudly. Sometimes during the autumn nights (winter was too chilly) they'd sneak out into the yard, with thick woollen blankets and a ransacked pair of Dad's socks, huddled together whilst the stars twinkled. They'd tell gruesome stories – _boys' stories _– of ghouls and spirits and monsters. Interestingly, it was always the Elder brother, out of the pair, that tossed and turned and shivered ceaselessly in their sleep on those starry nights.

That didn't stop Eragon being an irritating, snotty-nosed, snivelling little flea (flea could be exchanged for any word beginning with 'f'). Such as with the fishing incident, when Ma said Eragon couldn't go to the riverbank for the rest of the summer, which meant Roran couldn't _either_, because Eragon would follow him anyway and Roran would be the troublemaker, the culprit, and the one who got no supper.

"Then don't go fishing." His father had looked up from his steaming broth the first time that evening, and now he had spoken. And that was that.

So the two siblings – _cousins_, he still sometimes forgot to say, _cousins _– decided to go hiking for the first time on Roran's tenth summer, and began to trek barefooted along those winding, leafy footpaths he now knew so well.

"Ro', I have an Owie."

"Eragon, you're _nine_. You're too old to be saying 'Owie'."

"Am not." He stuck out his lip. He was being _deliberately childish _right now.

Roran stifled a groan. He was the Eldest. He was supposed to be the sensible one, his mother would say when she was cross, despite being a middle child herself – it was _hard_ though Ma, it was _hard_.

They walked a few yards more along the track, his brother hobbling behind him, grasping at his left foot rather blatantly, before speaking again with a wolfish grin spreading all over his face.

"Owie."

The elder boy twitched.

"Owie."

Roran pummelled him.

For the next five minutes, Eragon stumbled along behind him, more slowly, more carefully, his hand grasping a now bloodied nose to stop it streaming all down his face. Roran didn't look at him – he knew he'd feel bad if he did, because whether Eragon would be staring intently or hiding tears or wincing in pain, he wouldn't be scowling at Roran. Sometimes Roran wished he would. It was always Roran who bared his knuckles first – and that made him feel _guilty_, it made him feel hot and uncomfortable and sweaty and he didn't like it.

After five more minutes of walking in angry silence, his brother stopped. Roran didn't notice until a minute later, span back down the mudtrack and ran at lightning speed, 'till the evening silhouette of a lanky, greasy-haired nine year old farmboy could be seen squatting among the ferns.

"What the hell are you _thinkin'_, Egg-face, what the hell-"

"Look."

So Roran did. From the rough, beaten track, a glimpse of a view could be seen, framed by the scent of gorse bushes washed in mud. They were up high. Very high. Dizzyingly high – high enough to make Roran feel a bit ill. He could see the entire valley – a flourish of green, tangling and sprawling up to the shadowy points of distant mountains Roran did not know the names of. Beyond, was the slither of an afternoon moon in the warm sky, lingering as the sun began to sink below the mountains, and rolling mists from far-away lands tumbled into the valley.

"Don't they look like ants?" It was Eragon mumbling the question, who whispered as if it was for nobody to hear.

Roran veered a little closer to the edge which his little brother freely dangled his sore and reddened feet over, and slowly tipped his gaze downwards. The wild forest was eventually cut back by arrangements of neat, rectangular fields, and a cluster of thatched cottages, huddled together. Horsedrawn carts were just blurry dots, weaving in and out, like... ants. Roran couldn't see any people – they were too small, too insignificant, too forgettable. On the tip of the valley, you could see no one, and you could hear no one... it was almost lonely.

Roran didn't like it much.

"We should go. It'll get late in not too long, I think," he suggested.

His brother did not respond.

"We should _go_, Eragon."

His brother still refused to move.

"_Go._"

The boy still remained frozen, statue still, glaring determinedly out at the horizon. Roran wondered if Eragon had heard him at all.

Roran nearly punched him then. But he stopped himself. Just. He wasn't an _animal_, Roran didn't just _punch people_. He sank down next to Eragon. The view was sorta nice, after all. Maybe he could go see the world some day. Roran wanted to. Sorta. He'd probably be too busy with the farm and all... because Roran _would_ own the farm one day. It was his Pa's. Which made it his own too. His _inheritance. _But maybe he could travel. Dunno. Could be nice.

It then struck Roran that Eragon hadn't shifted at all for the past twenty minutes. He hadn't said _anything_.

"Do you have a problem?" Roran asked. The question sounded so _blunt_. Like a fist. Roran tensed up. "Just. Y'know. I can help. I'm yer brother."

Eragon did nothing.

Roran _did_ punch him then.

"I hate you."

Eragon did nothing.

"You're annoying," Roran spat. He was angry now. "And I hate you."

Eragon did nothing.

"Shut _UP!" _Roran screamed. "Shut up shut up shut _up!"_

He tried to kick Eragon but he teetered on the edge as he did so, _and oh god oh god I'm gonna fall Ma, I'm gonna fall help me oh god –_

But he didn't fall.

And still, Eragon did nothing. He didn't say a word. He stared blankly, alienly, _scarily_ out at the valley. Like he despised it with every muddy-blooded, country bumpkin, ruddy-faced fibre of his being. Or maybe Roran was just imagining things – doing an Eragon, being _stupid_. Eragon didn't hate him. Eragon _couldn't_ hate _anyone._ Could he? Roran couldn't imagine Eragon – head in the clouds Eragon, lost in his own little world Eragon, his own _baby brother_ who told him absolutely everything – ever being able to do something as ordinary and as common as hate.

"You're... so stupid." Roran sighed. "Gaaaaargh. Why are you _like_ this? Why don't you do _anything? _Can't you be _normal?_"

Eragon was silent. Roran tried to pull him up, forcefully – Eragon resisted, squirming and squiggling like a wiggly worm. But Roran was the stronger brother. He dragged him away anyway, Eragon's raw, blistering, bloodied feet scraping against the leaves – that was when Eragon started screaming.

It struck Roran like a blazing hot hammer. He dropped the boy.

"Sorry."

Eragon was silent.

"You know I don't mean it. You that, right?"

Eragon was silent.

"You – me, I... well..." Roran couldn't say anything. The two stood in silence for a minute, in the middle of the track. Then, of his own accord, Eragon got up diligently and traipsed behind his older brother as they walked home, slowly, but surely.

"Sorry," Roran said, five minutes later. He offered an arm to help his limping brother. Eragon didn't respond. Roran didn't want to touch him again. He might scream.

The stars had just began to prick the night sky when they got back. Ma was livid. And Roran was in trouble. Eragon was in trouble too, but Roran was in _bigger_ trouble. He got a beating from his father. Because he was the Eldest.

Things changed that day. Or maybe they didn't. Maybe things had always been this way and Roran had only just noticed. He didn't know. Eragon and him returned to that view, a couple of times, and watched it in silence. Together. Eragon did, at least – he was the only kid Roran ever knew who could voluntarily watch something for two hours straight without moving and do it with _joy_. Usually he would twitch, and squirm, and beg to go home – Roran was the patient one – but Eragon was the _stubborn _one. When he chose to be, he could be the most patient boy in the world. Roran couldn't sit still that long. So whilst Eragon watched the view, Roran would watch his brother.

Eragon was ordinary enough looking – scruffy hair, a bit greasy. Lanky. His face looked twice as young as his body – it was all puffy and flabby and 'cute'. His nose was okay, a little crooked, after he broke it running into a tree (who runs into a _tree?_). The eyes... the eyes were wrong though, those big round wide eyes, he'd decided, those deep, dark, brown eyes glazed with a thick dollop of honey. Pa's were the same colour. Roran had his Ma's eyes, which were a paltry, speckled hazel-y green-y yuck colour – he wished he'd had Pa's eyes.

Eragon's eyes didn't crinkle and crease and roll like Pa's though – they were filled with something _more_. Like a lust, a desire, a _longing_. Something that wanted to jump out of them and scream. A caged bird – he imagined it like that – with long, twisted squawks no one could hear. It was stuck in the wrong place. It was _lost_.

Which was what Eragon was like. He didn't have many friends. He didn't seem to want to make them – but he seemed to want them anyway. It made no sense to Roran. A friend was a friend. Absent-minded, clumsy, _away with the faeries _Eragon – _lost _Eragon – made up his own friends instead. Roran couldn't even begin to try and comprehend joining him there, in his own world.

When Roran was with the village kids, he'd shuffle behind him, cowering in his shadow, mumbling softly to himself. He'd always been shy, Roran knew. But it was just _weird_ now, thinking about it – he wasn't a little kid anymore. _I don't like them_, he had said, when Roran asked. Some of them tried to chase and corner him when he was alone, call him things and hurt him. Roran made quick work of them though. They only ever did it once. Roran made sure.

"You're a good kid, Ro'," his father had said to him after he'd scared them off. He'd even gotten a hand placed clumsily on his shoulder; by the time Roran had noticed it was there, that large, warm and sweaty Pa-hand, it had gone. It had been a surprise that he'd even said anything at all.

Eragon then started asking questions. They were the wrong kind of questions. Villagers didn't usually ask questions. Questions were suspicious. Questions would plague the fields and starve the crops, questions would send ghouls to burn the village to ash, questions would stop the rain.

"What ever happens to people who leave the village?"

"Did you always want to be a farmer Ro'?"

"Have you ever wanted to fly, Ro'?"

"Why do we grow crops – and why can't we ever have any cattle when we live on a _mountain_?"

"Why can Pa read and we can't?"

And then: "Why won't he teach us to read, Ro', why?"

And then: "Did you ever think of not doing everything Pa tells you to do Ro', just this once?"

And then, much later: "He's turning you into a damn bloody darn _f-fucking_ caveman_,_ Roran, isn't he? Both of us. Both of us, _fucking damn it._ Eh? Eh?"

Eragon earned a bloody nose for that particular question. Eragon bit him back. It was the first time Roran ever heard Eragon really... well. He didn't hear him speak like that again for a long time.

"Don't those little sets of pebbles that Ma keeps in the yard – don't they look a little bit like tiny gravestones?"

This one lead to the saddest face he'd ever seen; the day his Ma explained to him what a 'miscarriage' was.

"Don't you ever want to just... turn back the clock?"

It was shortly after that one he started insisting on going hiking by himself. This deeply unsettled Roran: didn't Eragon used to follow _him?_ He didn't like it. He protested to his mother about it. She laughed – daintily, as someone half her age did – continuing to stir at the saucepan – "It's vegetable stew again, if you want to know," – and called it _being a teenager_. Roran said he was a teenager _too_, he had been one for over a year now, and _he_ didn't do this.

"Not every teenager is the same as you, Ro'," she said, sipping at the bubbling stew, not caring to glance over her shoulder to look at her son.

"Yeah, I know," said Roran, as if he hardly knew at all. "But I still don't get it... why is he so different?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know..." Roran was tongue-tied. His fingers made funny shapes in his hands as they grasped at each other awkwardly. He didn't know what he meant at all. Well, he did. And he didn't. It was complicated. Eragon had a tendency to make things complicated.

"Oh." And suddenly she knew _exactly_ what he meant. "Well, your father had a little sister once like your little brother. The pair of them were very much like you two." She was now facing Roran directly, bending down instructively to where his height might have been as a bouncing child, despite the fact he loomed over her small and slight figure now. He could tell what was going to happen next – Ma was going to give one of her well known little 'talks'.

"Everyone's different, Roran, we all do funny little things we don't understand. We learn to live with them. And Eragon... well, Eragon likes to dream. Not everyone is born to be a farmer. I know didn't think I was one at all – and I ended up here," she paused, smiling again. That strange, distant smile he sometimes caught on her face – was joyful? Was it sad? He couldn't tell. Roran was always confusedwith women and their emotions; they hurled them around like clashing, stormy tides he'd never seen before.

"I _do _want to be a farmer, though. Like Pa," he found himself suddenly saying. It sounded so _stupid_ aloud.

"I know dear. You will."

Roran looked slightly baffled by the remark. "Where is she now?" he asked. "Pa's sister, I mean."

For a moment, Marian looked completely alarmed. It was one of the rare times, beneath the calm, gentle, female composure, that he saw his mother's face.

"I don't know, dear. I mean, she's dead now. She died quite a while ago. She moved away before she died." She stopped, her sudden, sharp wrinkles softening again, and regained her previous poise. "Don't tell you Pa that I said this."

The next day, Roran asked his father if he had a sister.

"Where the devil did you hear that from?" he snapped.

"The market." Roran stuttered. "I heard someone mention it. I don't know who."

"Don't listen to them. They're talking _bullshite_ Roran, _bullshite_."

And that was that. Roran just supposed it was a sibling thing. Siblings bicker. They weren't the same – and sometimes they were the opposite. Eragon was a creature of the sky, soaring on an updraft, blown away by a blustery wind. Roran... well, he wasn't sure what he was. Rooted? Maybe. He kept his feet on the ground though. However hard he clung to his brother, however firmly he tried to reign him in, he'd float away. The wind would call him.

And maybe that was how things were. Maybe it was how things were supposed to be. Maybe Roran was, as always, worrying far too much, fretting like an old mother hen thrice his age. He frowned – _why do people call me that? I really am not that overprotective_. But maybe they were right about one thing: he should slow down. He shouldn't get too upset about his brother deciding to hike alone for once. Maybe Eragon would finally to learn to shoot an arrow straight if he started hiking by himself – Roran doubted it.

And so Roran began to meet up with friends more in the village, without his brother tagging along. He began to talk to the village girls – an action considered unthinkable in boyhood, comparable with licking forest slime off the bark of a dead tree. He met Katrina – Katrina! – for the very first time. Simple, dainty, smiling Katrina: oh yes, Roran was completely besotted by her small, delicate smiles; happy smiles, that were never confusing or vague. It was enough to make him forget what the word 'worry' meant. For a short while.

But then of course, came the revelation. It gouged through him like one of Eragon's arrows: now deadly, now lethal, now straight as a dagger's edge. They were sharpened, silvery, unused daggers everyone now fastened to the front of their belts – there was 'social unrest' and 'dangerous times' coming. People bought less. The fields began to wither. People called them omens, and started locking their doors and painting them with big white 'X's to drive the spirits away, or hung garlic over the door frame.

Perhaps then, he should have seen it coming. Because it was not brother – but _cousin_. Ma and Pa became the austere, unknown, Aunt Marian and Uncle Garrow. And he went from 'Ro' to Cousin Roran.

That was the winter Ma got sick – just days afterwards they'd told Eragon the truth – and died. But not like that – it was slow, agonising, gradual. She caught a fever. Roran watched her grow weaker, her movements strained, jittering, shivering uncontrollably; he watched her skin grow paler, colder, and stiffer with each passing day. She turned into a living corpse. In the final weeks, you could almost smell it rotting. Roran just wanted it to be over. Roran just wanted her to die. For it to be sudden as a thunderclap. But death didn't work like that. It was sudden to those who didn't deserve it, and heartlessly sadistic to those who did. But _Ma_... did Ma deserve that? Did Ma deserve to be so, so sick, for so, so, long? Roran heard his father crying at nights, a forced, choked, grisly snuffing and snorting; Pa couldn't bear to howl, to scream, to arch his back and roar: not whilst his kids could hear him. Did Pa deserve that? Did Roran have the time to watch his brother's – _cousin's_ – every movement, when his own (not _their_ own) stuttering, grief-stricken father was so close to tying a noose around his neck and hanging like a scarecrow?

Maybe if she hadn't left so soon, then he would have understood what was going on with Eragon. After that long, bitter, frost-bitten winter ended, after the cruel, cold mists had risen, and the earth was no longer as hard as iron... things had changed. During those long, black nights, Roran did not have time to notice that there was a world, a world struggling with its own griefs and turmoils – what use was the world when it had done this to his Ma? But when the sun rose and the birds began to sing again, his brother had already morphed, without warning, into a stranger, a _cousin_.

He couldn't tell what this cousin was thinking, or feeling, this cousin told him nothing and gave away nothing, kept his thoughts prised closed. He was jovial enough – he smiled, he talked, he even laughed: as rarely as anyone else in the family now did. But they were the words and faces of a talkative, friendly traveller who was sticking around to work through the summer and pack his bags before the snow fell. The doors had been closed on Roran, barricaded forever, and he could never understand his brother's world, even through the rare glimpses, he'd be like any other village boy – an _outsider_.

Maybe that was why he wasn't surprised when he ran away. Maybe that was why he wasn't surprised when he'd found a dragon and became its rider. Maybe that was why he wasn't surprised when he had become the figure head of a war campaign, no, an entirely new era of history_._ Maybe that was why he wasn't surprised when he found a brother of his own – _half-brother_ – a more formidable companion, one with his own dark secrets, murky past and mysterious powers. A mirror image to... well. How would one describe his _cousin's_ life now? Maybe –

"Hey Ro'!"

Roran turned to the left. Illuminated by a crackling fire, a certain magician had decided to plonk himself down right beside him. _He's going to accuse me of 'brooding' again._ Roran hid a grimace – he certainly did not _brood_, or do anything as such. It was such a ... feminine thing to do.

"Nobody's called me that in years, Carn."

"I apologise, Cap'n," he replied, with a mischievous grin and a mock salute.

Roran laughed. "You be chirpy tonight, it seems." He'd had a few drinks – to be sure, he could hear the rowdy lot yodelling only a couple of hundred yards away.

"Of course!" replied Carn, delightedly. "A good haul tonight helped with that too. I never expected war to be so _boring_," his laughter was much darker now. "I expected enough guts each day that we could tie up the prisoners with their brother's intestines. I guess I was _disappointed_, eh?"

Carn, was when speaking of a 'haul', referring to his collection of eyeballs.

After the adrenaline pumping rush and bloodied chaos of the battle, there was always surprisingly little to do. Travelling took weeks. And men eager for morbidity would find it in their own ways – ways that the villages of the Northern Valleys would have once condemned as _the wrong kind of magic _and would have sent men armed with flaming pitchforks and rotting garlic. Most men couldn't stand to touch the splattered corpses that were scattered in the Badlands and mutilate them for their own greed – _most_ men, that was. But when piles upon piles of dead bodies became common enough sight, no one cared.

When Roran had asked about the eyeballs, Carn quietly mentioned something about how they reminded him of _gobstoppers_ – something he'd never had enough spare pennies hidden in his grubby pockets to gorge on as a child.

Roran said he had absolutely no idea what a gobstopper was. Carn had laughed – _you country boys, we need more of you_. Roran still couldn't decide whether that was insulting or not.

"Anyway, the Varden's finally moving quickly now – yet enough reason to drink before it's too late – but you seem decidedly sober, my friend," said Carn expectantly.

_Here we go again –_

"My missus. She's not too well and I don't want her to fret." _Pregnant women. _Roran would have rolled his eyes if it weren't Katrina. He was still besotted with her, even now.

"Ah," Carn said, with a sympathetic smile. "You're a good man, Roran. You're going to make a great father."

_Father_. Roran hid a grimace. _Still a painful word._ He still had little idea where his father's body was buried – or hidden. He had dug through the ash and the blackened wood, of what was once his home, fingers raw and bleeding, face streaming with tears, Katrina begging him to stop, begging him – _why did you have to leave us, so soon, too? Why Pa? You never liked the question 'why', but please Pa, answer it just this once, just this once –_

"Hey, isn't that your cousin over there?"

It was. The figure on the horizon he had seen before: but it was taller, more graceful, and more beautiful. Draped now in expensive silks and jewelled finery, gifted by foreign queens whose names Roran could barely pronounce, it was difficult discern the silhouette of the lanky kid with the big brown eyes who sat stubbornly at that viewpoint all those summers ago with him.

"Yeah, that's him." His _cousin_.

"Well, why don't you call him over? You're family, right?"

Roran sighed. Well, not loudly. Carn could catch a funny look fifty miles away completely pissed whilst riding bareback naked on a horse backwards if it was loud enough.

"When was the last time the two of you spoke together?" The magician asked.

_Too long._

"What sort of question is _that_?" Roran said, eyebrows raised. Carn only laughed uneasily in response.

Eragon spoke to Roran fairly often, actually. But Roran never spoke back to _him_. They never spoke _together_. It was always very exacting, almost stiff, the way Eragon did it. Formally. With firmly pegged and punctuated words. Full. stop. Mo. No. Syll. La. Bic. And he'd repeat things. Occasionally. He'd repeat things.

It was sort of condescending, actually. And usually Eragon would glance to the sky or check an elfin-design pocketwatch now and again, raise his eyebrows questionably, make some remark about being rather strained for time _but I've decided to pop over and visit you anyway, despite being ever so busy with fighting a war and slaying a king and hunting my rogue half-brother which no one knows about and trying to bed elfin princesses and attending Dwarven clan meets to debate politics for twelve hours a week and I like to swing away at a good odd fifty men a day with a sword to keep in shape, but I'm going to visit you anyway because it's good for the morale of the soldiers and makes good propaganda posters and I guess you're my _cousin _now_, _aren't you?_

Since when did Roran become so cynical? It was the sort of thing his father would have said.

He was being unfair, he knew. Watching the silhouette on the horizon... that silhouette was pacing frantically like his brother would, his shoulders stooped his brother used to, his muscles tensing, hunching – Roran couldn't see, but he knewhis fingers were opening and closing anxiously, his palms sweating by now, and his face turned very pale, just like his brother used to do. Roran couldn't fail to notice that, brother or not.

"Look Carn, he's got better things to be worrying about right now. I don't want to trouble him."

Carn met Roran's sturdy gaze right in the eye. "If you say so," he said. "Well... what do you think is the matter with him? Between me and you, eh?"

"I couldn't honestly say."

He wasn't lying. He didn't know at all.

Roran could guess though - just _guess_. Arya had been missing for five days now – the elves had finally began to ask questions about it, cause trouble because of it, stall the next battle, even, he'd heard – although he was sure Eragon had been asking questions since the first day.

* * *

><p>Roran was wrong.<p>

Eragon wasn't thinking about Arya. He had thought about that for the past four nights obsessively, stupidly, scarily. The lovesick cretin he was. Then Saphira had told him to stop. Which meant Eragon had to stop.

So tonight, he was going to worry about his brother instead.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I'm leaving you guys to interpret the last sentence as you want. Even I'm not sure exactly who Eragon is referring to. I think it's probably Murtagh, although it could as easily be Roran considering how close they used to be. I'm aware this chapter is mostly filler - the most important details are the last, really, about how Eragon is agitated and distant. I said this fic would be slow! This could stand as a one-shot on its own - I might actually rehash the ending and do that. It became a lot longer than it was meant to be, mainly because I slightly fell in love with Roran as a character (I still hate Katrina and Saphira though :3). I really did not like his character before, but he can be interesting, really interesting, if you play about with canon a bit. There is some canon dissidence - Eragon isn't half as... unhappy in the books as he is here. But he keeps things largely to himself.

Scotland was rainy, although there was no internet, allowing me to write mammoth 5k long chapters. Reviews:

**EminemBitches**: Ahhh... well one of those issues will defintly be resolved later. As for the age thing, I figure if Arya is going to sleep with an Empire dude, she probably gave up smaller moral concerns like age a while back. It's defintly not a perfect relationship, that's for sure.

**Marshall88**: Probably not... although then again, I haven't quiet decided yet on teh ending. We'll see.

**Unique Fantasiser**: ;D. There's a lot of unique fantasies in here for ya. Glad you liked it.

**Restrained. Freedom.** : There's not enough information at the moment to get to the bottom of Arya's mystery. A lot of those voices and thoughts in the second person were actually her own - she's been spending a lot of time talking to herself. It's not the 'exotic feather', that's for sure :P.


	13. Chinese Whispers

**XIII**: Chinese Whispers

* * *

><p>The throne room was ensnared in shadow during the midday heat. It was a fault of design.<p>

"He has not returned yet?"

There was no answer. Not even a delectable echo, a ghostly repeat, in the vast, empty room. There was no one else there, you see. _No one._

And the small, twitching figure lying on the cold, marble floor, looked even smaller alone. There was something mouse-like, something ordinary, fidgety, and timid, about his demeanour. It might have been the expensive gaudy fabrics that he was wearing, that seemed to smother that weak, child-like figure. They were ill-fitted, like a peasant's.

"He has not returned yet?"

He had been asking this for the past hour. Determinedly. It was soaked in rage, that voice, a fire was burning, raging, beneath the scrubby tones, although aloud it sounded like it wanted to break into pieces.

The entire palace knew when the King was mad. It sounded like a frail child dying. It was not something you easily forgot.

* * *

><p>"Olivia."<p>

"I'm scrubbing ma'm, I'm scrubbing_._"

"These sheets. Are not dry. You hear? These sheets– "

_You're not in Belatona, Mabs._

"–Are not dry. And the King's 5th suite will be used _this evening_. His _fifth _suite. I suggest you dry them."

"He's bringing home a box."

"Dry them _now_ Olivia, unless you insist on getting your tongue ripped out when _He _finds your slightly damp wet sheets in his fifth quarters – sorry, _what?_"

"A box. I told you Mabel, 'The Master' is bringing home _a box._"

"_The_ box?"

"I have no idea if it is _the_ box, but –"

"You've been spying at the locksmith's market again Nell, haven't you?"

"Always so cynical, ma'm."

"I have to be. Have you seen the poor girls who run the King's second quarters? Living corpses – you don't need to bother with _magic_ when you have them. Nell, you have no idea if he's _bringing_ home anything. He still answers to the demands of the King_–_

"Only the King_–"_

"–And he's going to disappoint you and your silly ideas again."

"_He'll disappoint you in bed too, Nellie."_

"Olivia! Sheet drying! Now!"

"But_ what if–"_

"_He'll open up your box alright."_

"Shut your trap, Olivia, you're a mouthbag of a whorehouse, you. Go be a dear and help your sister, Nell."

"But _what_ _if _ma'm_, what if." _

"Help your sister. Do it."

"But _Mabel–_"

"We've been asking 'what if' for years, Nell."

"Why stop now? You never know_–_"

"He's going to be just the same as his father, Nell, you'll see soon enough. It's in the blood."

* * *

><p>There was a particular clause, a twist of wording in every crimson and gold sealed letter Murtagh received – whether deliberate or not, he would never quite grasp, one could never tell with <em>his<em> senseless handiwork. It was like everything the King did – nearly utter genius or nearly downright idiotic, depending on whether he was weaving an intricate web of his spidery thoughts or shattering it with angry claws. And that depended on his equally calamitous and unpredictable moods, snaking in and out with the tides of an ocean. The clause itself was probably the only nearly constant, the only nearly definite in any matters relating to the King.

"On completion of this mission, you must return and report to me immediately of its success (it was automatically assumed every mission Murtagh partook in was an instant success) in _person_. It is your responsibility to personally seek myself out and organise this debriefing. Failure to do so by exactly one week will result in _the_ _signal_ being called."

Finding Galbatorix was never tricky; it was the opposite: he was irritatingly difficult to avoid. Murtagh wasn't sure the last time he'd left Uru'baen was. It might have been ten, twenty, thirty years. Official statements and dealings and the entire running of the Empire – 'external affairs', as the King had always dismissively referred to them as – were always the business of various expendable lackeys that rotated on a bi-weekly basis after the last had been executed somewhat violently after a fairly reasonable torture session with a few hot pokers and a mediocre-sized vat of burning oil. Or it would be dealt with, when he had one, by the second-in-command. Murtagh was the second man to have ever held that position; no prizes awarded to whoever guessed whom the first was. With any semblance of responsibility handed away, the King was content to spend every waking second of eternity locked in the confines of the Winter Palace. Or perhaps it was for the exact opposite reason: to be never content. Whether the King's expansive list of fluctuating moods ever contained 'contentedness' was the last of Murtagh's concerns, however.

Therefore, Murtagh could summarise this paragraph down to two important words: "one week". One week to do absolutely fuck all except return to Uru'baen. That this would lead to an avalanche of various useless pieces of paperwork, documents and files, and a cacophony of ignorant, irksome and utterly persistent voices at various tactical meetings, discussions, and morale rallies, Murtagh was completely aware. Most of the time, he'd return reasonably – not always completely – but reasonably promptly to avoid exactly that.

This time, he deliberately forgot the last fifty words he had just thought.

Even he needed time to be pretending to be relaxing and enjoying himself. Every important politician was entitled to a holiday. Murtagh included (if Murtagh even counted as a politician), even if this meant being entirely hypocritical in following phrases such as 'exactly one week' to every hastily scripted letter, and then completely ignoring phrases such as 'Do not look inside the box. Do not destroy the box. Do not tamper with the contents of the box. There will be harsh penalties endured in said circumstances.' That was another concern which he was recklessly 'postponing'. What was a politician, after all, if not a hypocrite, if not a dirty, traitorous liar with fingers dipped in blood? At least the Empire, when it came to 'politicians', was somewhat honest about its completely amoral lack of honesty. Or is that hypocrisy too? Irony? An oxymoron of thought?

_You're doing it again._

It was himself speaking, not Thorn. Thorn never needed to say anything, he just needed to hum contentedly, chase squirrels – red ones, with bright bushy tails wiggling –, do something insane now and again, and Murtagh would _love_ him enough.

_You're doing it again. You're supposed to be taking a break._

And he had been. On the first day he got drunk. The first time he'd ever gotten drunk.

Murtagh had decidedly not thought any more about it.

For the vomit-stained remains of the week, Murtagh had acted... normally. He and Thorn had wafted away on a westerly breeze, and soared through a blue, blank and cloudless sky, with a glittering ocean beneath them. Choppy, it seemed, with the ocean's teeth gnashing and smashing, white froth rising and falling like a rabid animal's: it must have been the wind. He had chuckled at the thought of the West Coast, the dazzling and rich West Coast, lined with golden beaches, the coast he had wanted to see one last time now, being so... _feral_. They had swept up along the edge, with only the amusing glower of an irritated albatross; his immaculate and prim feathers had been thoroughly ruffled by his the disturbance in his prized fishing spot. Thorn had sprayed water at it whilst skimming the surface _just_ as it had decided to dive again. Murtagh had laughed heartily. They had floated back southwards along the Spine, zigzagging through the green-capped mountains. The two glided along by undiscovered caves and canyons, vast, wonderful, and empty. One day they had stopped at the edge of a forgotten lake, where no footsteps had ever wandered, for Murtagh to begin to decipher _Tales of the Western Seas: Murtagh the Pirate Lord_. He flicked through the grubby, yellowing pages without really reading them, and began absent-mindedly debating philosophy to himself instead.

– _I'm not a socialist, but– _

– _Seriously now? The 's' word?_

– _But I think– _

– _Oh, here comes the admission– _

– _it's completely implausible that one can live completely isolated in this world without consideration of others and fit your prior definition of 'contentedness' as something involving emotional wealth–_

– _Marxism, really? Really Murtagh? How many Marxists have you ever met despite yourself? –_

– _You're still on that old horse, aren't you? There's a dozen fallacies and a half in that sentence alone, and I'm not a Marxist, I'm definitely nothing like a Marxist, for fuck's sake–_

– _Since when was Alagaesia ever a sensationalist– _

– _I'm sensationalist? You're the sensationalist– _

– _dystopian novel? Since when did you ever support crackpot ideals with no semblance of weight or popularity in any intellectual community, which will never be seriously discussed? It'll never happen – _

–_Excuse me, but if I could have finished what I was saying..._

And so he went on. Thorn had smirked bemusedly at this, batting a spare eyelid. He was content to bake in the ripening sun, his scales gleaming like the lake water, lazily swatting a buzzing fly with a _swish_ of his tail. He'd dive in for a light lunch _later_, but not now...

_And when you will, _Murtagh interrupted, _you'll dump it on my lap first._

The dragon had nodded enthusiastically and vigorously, as if this was his cunning plan all along. As vigorously as a half-asleep dragon could.

He did exactly that half an hour later. Murtagh rolled his eyes with as much sardonic feeling as he could muster. This was normality – well, _their_ version of it.

It was enough to make Murtagh forget why he was in the middle of nowhere in the first place.

Just about.

Nearly.

Almost.

* * *

><p>When the master returns to his estate, his cape billowing in the wind, the household takes a collective breath. It is high, squealing, and forced. <em>Forced<em>, because the collective stammering of their hearts is so rapid that their lungs are strangled by their own flooding veins. They can't breathe.

Not all masters of the estate are of such calibre, especially in the Imperial days. Some are bumbling, blubbering fools, prancing around in their suit and tails looking remarkably like a lost penguin. Some are shivering, skinny-shouldered, paltry-faced little boys bossed around by overbearing aged crones who happened to be their _mothers_. There were many kinds of 'master', but none of them were a master, in a manner of speaking.

You could tell a true master from a falsity, a fool. It is innate, they say. It is in the blood.

The Winter Palace was breathless that eve. Not because Belatona had been nearly burnt to cinders, razed to the ground, turned to an ornate fountain of desecrated blood. What servant cared of insolent revolutionaries, a thousand miles away?

None. Unless it was their blood that was shared. Organising funerals is such a bother – coffin makers are _really_ overpaid for their handiwork these days. Or possibly their ration packets taken away as a result. That was a little upsetting, usually.

No, it was far more exciting than that.

Everything, absolutely everything was to be spotless. Completely untouched, completely clean, completely _perfect_. The Winter Palace, the entirety of it, every nook and cranny and disgruntled chambermaid, was sparkling, bustling with vigour and activity and life, bursting almost into _song_. Well, it wasn't. This was _Uru'baen_, dear goodness me, it was not _Dras_-_Leona_. It had never been so improperly unrestrained in conduct. But it _could_ have sung. Everyone was working ruthlessly, their knuckles raw as they polished every handle, every trimming, every floor. Scrubbing. Scrub a dub dub.

Everything had to spotless. Everything had to be 'pristine white'.

The Master was _finally_ coming home. Or they hoped. They hoped, desperately, dearly, that it would be the Master this time, of the Master of Imperial Winter Palace of Uru'baen. The rumours had been circulating again – maybe, just maybe...

They would be holding their breath.

* * *

><p>Stab.<p>

Slash.

Twist.

Boom.

Slash. Stab. Another stab. Magic trick. Slash slash slash. Swirl. Kick in the balls, in the bladder, and into his intestines, all of which were spilling out in a miraculous display now. Buh-buh-buh-bingo! Twenty men dead at once.

_That was some nice work._

Eragon was now sprinting along some dusty alleyway, his blood-soaked footprints ruining some shoddy artist's copycat masterpiece painted on the floor, scouring for the next batch of guards before they reached the rest of the men waddling behind him. The-twenty-men-in-not-many-seconds fiasco was now far behind him, despite being not many seconds ago: in fact, Eragon thought he could have done better, but since Saphira sounded mildly impressed, it was necessary for him to comment:

_Yeah. _

_What do you mean, 'yeah'? _

_I mean, yeah, I guess that was... good? I don't know._

_Evidently_.

Eragon scowled as he ripped another Belatonan guard to nothing. It was done rather furiously, with lots of red stuff squirting out.

_You're still thinking about _her, _aren't you?_

_What do you mean? _Eragon stopped himself from then asking 'When did I ever stop?', before remembering Saphira could hear every thought in his noggin' regardless of whether its existence was intentionally meant for her listening pleasure or not. Blast.

Saphira snorted with laughter – yes, she _had_ heard all of that, despite being all the way up here, _thank you_. She was swirling above the city, roasting another ten odd buildings. Feinster was a Rider's city – Saphira could manage to snake through the rigid square grid of roads, just about. Belatona, however, was older, dirtier, grimier, and positively _medieval._ Narrow spindly alleyways twisted confusedly with no sense or pattern: it was a complete shambles. A lot like their guardsman, Eragon had discovered, as he slashed through another six with merely a single sweat drop rolling down his cheek. It was more effective to set it ablaze and save half the effort of scrambling through it. _Good riddance_, Eragon had thought. He felt a bit sorry for the people living in the buildings though. It must be sad for them to be torched alive ... horrifying even. _But_, he had reinforced before Saphira could correct him, _it is all for a good cause_. _Glorious, even._ _They are in the league and protection of Galbatorix. And Galbatorix's reign will not go on_. _Shall not go on_.

That, he repeated to himself, was why he was doing this. Slash. Stab. Stab. Kick in the face. A sharp elbow. Swipe. It was for the _greater good_.

Eragon did not like the phrase: he'd heard it enough, the grating, grisly phrase. Like knuckles grinding together. Or an aged fist pounding on the table of stinking beer halls, covered in slop and cow shit. _It was for the greater good. All of it. _Yes, Eragon really did loathe the phrase. That he had to constantly repeat the words himself did not make matters any better.

A flying hammer. Coming in from the left – he hadn't quite noticed that one. Duck. Twirl. Stab its owner. Dead. Dead dead dead. Never agonisingly injured, never spared. Just limp as a rotting vegetable. Eragon rubbed his wrist. He'd got a very slight bruise from the hurtling force of steel: he hadn't ducked quite fast enough.

_Watch it,_ Saphira hissed.

_I am._

_No you're not._

There was a long silence. Maybe it should have been filled through some deep, unspoken emotion or connection. But it was actually rather empty. And long. Saphira then muttered again.

_Sometimes I just wish you'd go fetch her herself_._ It'd save all the hassle. _

Eragon did not bother to say anything in the least in return. Or correct her about what he was actually feeling or thinking about – because Saphira _knew_ what he wasn't thinking about, and it wasn't her. Or was that 'was'? Had he inadvertently used a double negative _again_?

He shrugged, and stabbed the next twelve guards as his scrawny shoulders slipped up and down. _How many guards does this city actually have?_ He chuckled to himself and only to himself._ Isn't this becoming a little ridiculous now? Necromancy at work, eh? Eh?_

Silence.

Then an idea dawned on Eragon, a blazing burst of glory, in the ridiculous, exaggerated way ideas dawn on apparently stupid people. Maybe it was just the raging fires and crumbling brick walls ablaze he'd seen, that appeared to be a 'blazing burst of glory', of all the _stupid_ phrases, but he was hopeless and desperate and maybe just liked to delude himself. He, like every other apparently stupid person, would thus go forth and celebrate the dawning of this grand idea. In Eragon's case, this meant slicing a few more people into slithers of salami.

_I don't like the taste of men, _Saphira mentioned coolly. _Too chewy._

* * *

><p>She heard them scrubbing at the walls.<p>

Oromis had once shown her how the world would speak, the trees would whisper and the ground would shake with important footsteps. She would cusp her ears to the forest; hear their whimpers, their cracking, leaves bristling with fresh secrets. So why not walls? Why couldn't the walls mutter and mumble and scream?

_Because walls aren't living._

She listened to the walls anyway. The stone would whisper to her. Even the slow murmurs of a stone, a stoic, cold, stone, were suddenly turned frantic and frenzied and fretting and jittering and wobbling like a stone honestly couldn't. Those words, those delicate, gently spoken words that would ooze out of their coarse lips, were now pummelling her ears, spraying, shooting, overflowing, blasting her with endless hysterical whispers of ideas and dreams she could not begin to comprehend.

One thing was clear though: The Master was coming home.

_The Master was coming home_.

Or he could be. He _could _be. But they had been waiting so, so long for a leader, a force, a terror – and now here he _could_ be the brightest flash hope they'd had in a hundred years, and before that, millennia, and now he _could_ take charge, just as prophesised, just as expected, just as believed, maybe, just _maybe–_

They were hoping hopelessly. It was something very human and something Arya could not ever understand.

_Elves hope hopelessly too. You are aware of that fact. It is a case of _you_ being unable to. Can I? I can't. I believe I can't – I think, I cannot, but I don't know. I don't know. I don't–_

Arya did not know.

She decided she really did not like this Master.

* * *

><p>The King would detest these days the most. He was absolutely livid on these days. These were the days that he would torch a few odd invisible towns or unheard of villages unwritten on a map for his <em>own viewing pleasure<em>, bringing along a few cucumber sandwiches for _nibbles_ whilst he was at it. Of course, that was the height of fashion, _haute couture_, these days. Burning down towns – oh, of course, he'd been a trendsetter! Marvellous!

Not very. Because the King was still in an utterly foul mood, irrespective of any alternate circumstance, because it was _one of these days_.

_The Master was coming home_.

Oh, what _nonsense._ But the Imperial Palace's servants, even if they were _Uru'baenites_, were entitled to their ridiculous superstitions about Masters and Servants and The Proper Order of Things and Belonging to Your Correct Class and all sorts of _nonsense_ told by a horde of swindling gypsies fifty-thousand moons ago. Servants were complete snobs, really. Worse than aristocrats.

Yes, _Galbatorix_ was mocking something for being nonsensical!

_This is how bad it actually gets. That I, I of all people, myself, me, me me me! This is – oh, god._

He set a tapestry on fire. Just like that. Seriously, _on fire,_ flames bright blue and sparkling and ethereal. Because he was _Galbatorix_, and _he could_.

_He could burn it all._

Of course, in this day and age, that made him on the level of a delectable snot-nosed wannabe courtier with his belt too large, and his boots to long, and a disgusting selection of silver rings on his fingers prancing around the inner city strumming a lute – that was the fashion, these days. It was _ugly_. And fire was fashionable too. And Galbatorix was now a _follower_. Not a _leader_. But a _follower_.

No one had noticed that the tapestry was on fire. Ornate thing. Five hundred years old. Typical tapestry tale – Knight goes out an adventure to slay a few Urgals and retrieve a golden medallion, gets waylaid by an elfin – _it was always an elf – _an elfin whore whose seductive witchcraft challenges his resolve, but in the end he perseveres and keeps his purity and honour – gone. Like that. It had been set alight. A relic. A forgotten piece of history from a bygone era that people would _gawk _ over.

No one had noticed. No one cared.

Galbatorix was absolutely furious. That it was his own fault, he completely ignored. No, he was absolutely seething, like a child in a very stroppy tantrum. Could you not tell by his smile? Was it not the most poisonous, most horrific, most terrifying thing you had ever seen?

_A smile._

"Janine. JANINE!"

He screamed his newest personal servant's name, which echoed throughout the Winter Palace. He had got bored of the last one and chopped off her head with a giant razor blade a little earlier. A messy cut – one could imagine, but it was very amusing. And bloody. Another demure looking servant, almost doll-like, immediately scuttled past the door and opened it. She shivered at being referred by first name – it was very unbecoming of a King.

"Janine, a change of plans, as I am sure you are now accustomed to – I would like the 2nd Drawing room in the East Wing redecorated. For this evening. Now. A... change of colour scheme, mainly. It is burgundy and gold, no? I would like it to be _white _and gold. Red: not crimson, of course, Royal colours will always be suitable – but particularly _wine red_, and burgundy, is far too much in fashion, currently. The court would turn me into a _laughing_ stock, now, and that would not be considered... suitable. _Chop-chop _now. Get on with it, _girl_."

Galbatorix paused. He pointed a stray, little-finger in the vague direction of the smoking tapestry. "Oh, and clear that up, why don't you?"

She did not nod in response. She closed the door and slunk silently away.

_The Master is coming home – god, I have never heard such _rubbish_, I should show them, I should show them what having a _real_ Master, a real horty-torty Lord, a bloody blood Baron is like –_

He would find fault in perfection. He would pace those ruthlessly polished floors, brooding, slinging a knife so casually through their 'pristine white', their spotless work, cursing silently, without moving his beautiful, tormented lips.

– _And there'd be blood. There was always blood_ –

Smeared into the 'pristine white', silky sheets. It belonged to the mangled body of the last maid who'd tried to be perfect.

They were used to it.

_The entire damn village was used to it_.

It was sort of like a war in that respect.

* * *

><p>A red dragon sailed through the blood-stained sky, the sun now sunk low on the horizon. The glittering, airborne jewel circled the mass of dusty buildings and streaky shadows drawn across them. Uru'baen. The whiter the building the richer the district: it began a squalid grey, blackened by fires of the days before, rows upon rows of tin roofed shacks with broken windows. The world below turned lighter as it progressed, to white plaster smothered with dirt and grime, cleaned more furiously and doused more thoroughly as they floated across the spice and finery merchants' district, the formal estates, the inner city itself. The buildings were gleaming and shining white, angels of the ground, before the red dragon approached the towering spires of the Winter Palace.<p>

It began to descend. The crimson beast glided onto the Palace's flight deck effortlessly, its wings fanning upwards to decelerate, proud as a peacock's. The landing was _exquisite_. Perhaps, one might have thought to mention, the dragon, for he was young, was _far_ too accustomed to this exact route of return.

A man – for he _was_ a man, then climbed down from the back of the dragon. A cloak billowed behind his tall, broad figure. The scent of russet furs, thick, soft and luxurious, that lined and trimmed every edge of his clothing, permeated the wild winds. Clad in layers of hardened leather and cloth, protection against the bitter coldness of above, he removed his leather helmet and goggles.

Olivia, who had snuck away from her previous, _trite_ occupation of sheet-drying, was hidden among the turrets. Watching. She could not see his face now – it was obscured by shadow. Drat. The face, the stern, untouchable, exotic face of a brooding, almost _Byronic_ Master – that was the best part. It occurred to her then that she was the only one watching this forbidden spectacle. She smiled knowingly. _All the more for me_.

Of course, then disaster struck.

The Rider _tripped._

He didn't fall. No, he simply stumbled, and moved on. But all the confidence, the demeanour, had vanished, and the smouldering black stares had become lacklustre. And all the grand, dramatic _performance_ – because it _was_ simply a performance, an act – of a Master had vanished.

There was no 'Master'.

She saw his face then. It was nothing exactly _exciting_ either. Looked like his father, but he couldn't quite carry his own sternness, it fell sloppily on him. Made him look like _a lawyer_. Or worse, a hooked-nosed medicinal man, decaying in his own seriousness. Hair was not short, but not long enough, an in-between, half-decisive middling length. And then there were those eyes – _urgh_. Wide, expectant, and a _common_ brown. Were those pock-marks she saw on that previously pale skin? No, it wasn't that bad. Still.

Disappointing.

It occurred to Olivia that the poor sod had no idea what the hell was going on. He had no clue of what scandal was being muttered and murmured about among the servants' quarters. How they'd watched – and observed: he'd _finally_ grown some backbone and stayed away from Uru'baen for longer than necessary, made the King furious, ruthless, and _worried_, how there was a _possibility_ that he could have transformed – and people began to hope. As they had _every_ time this mysterious, mystical rider returned to the 'baen. The servants had been deliriously wishful of the Red Rider since the day he was born. Just as they had been of his father – not as if Olivia actually remembered his father, but it was what everyone else had been saying, so she just parroted the phrase like a blind budgie.

It was a bit like a children's game.

There was something about him, you see. Something that 'could have been'. Or maybe never have been. It simply stank of a half-fulfilled vow that had never been made, or a pinky-promise sworn by a palmful of grubby child's spit. Olivia chuckled. Nellie would hate her for the rest of the evening when she told her, but someone had to spill the beans.

She felt sorry for him most of all. He'd be seeing the King. And the whole of the Palace, except possibly him, was _completely _aware of when the King _was not happy_.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Build up chapter, really. Some character development going on. I had fun with Galbatorix - there's even _more_ of him next chapter, which should be awesome.

Reviews:

**Noise from Nowhere:** He's my favourite character to wirte so far. I often think people forget the volatility of Galbatorix - someone deciding to blame an entire Order of Riders for a failing of his own is seriously in denial, and acting very irrationally. Therefore, Galbatorix is irrational. It makes him really fun to write, although challenging, as there's a lot of elements to balance when writing him, and I definitely don't want to go overboard with his insanity.

**Restrained. Freedom.** : I'm so glad that you liked last chapter! I thought not many people would enjoy it because nobody likes Roran much, but I'm really glad you enjoyed it. It's interesting that you say Eragon and Murtagh are alike, because I always sort of imagine them as Ying and Yang on the surface, although at the core they're very similar. Thank you :)

Please review if you can! It really lightens my day to hear your thoughts regardless of whether they're good or bad! It's lovely simply knowing you've put the effort into reviewing. Thanks for reading, guys.


	14. The Fishmonger

I: The Fishmonger

"_since brevity is the soul of wit..." – Polonius, Hamlet Act I Scene II._

* * *

><p>"Sire."<p>

Murtagh was kneeling in a small, private drawing room, tucked in a corner of the East Wing of the palace. It was white – a hasty, persistent white that shakily covered the walls. The room was choked by the stench of an equally nauseating shade of white jasmine flowers. He had suspected something had died here yesterday, possibly a small child, and they were airing out the scent. Galbatorix would do something like that, wouldn't he?

"Rise, Morzansson."

The King was smiling at him. Murtagh certainly was not.

"So."

Galbatorix snapped his fingers. He floated four inches off the ground, and walked smoothly towards his second-in-command. He was exactly the same height as Murtagh by doing this. He pulled another disgusting grin of his.

He swirled away.

"I believe." Dramatic pause. He fingered the rim a wine glass nonchalantly, one of two. White wine. It had been poured delicately, left on a silver-trimmed side table, eager to be sipped. Smuggled from a Surdan vineyard – _unethically imported_, as Galbatorix would have insisted on correcting, '_smuggled' is a hideous word, with such ugly connotations, no?_

He swirled away.

"We have a rather large amount of catching up to do. Don't we Murtagh?"

Murtagh did not respond. He didn't need to. In his experience, Evil Villains loved their monologue time. Galbatorix _adored _it.

"I believe that there is _certainly_ a lot on your plate now. Is there not, Murtagh?"

Murtagh did not respond.

"Belatona was not built in a day. Or was that Uru'baen they were talking about there? I do quite forget. In which case, they are in dire need of correction. Uru'baen _was _built in one day. Less. I built it. With, of course, assistance from your father."

"I believe, _sire_, you mentioned Belatona?"

The King's eyes narrowed. That _smile_, that remained, however.

"I believe I did."

Murtagh did not need ears to hear the missing, stumbled-over word there. _Morzansson_. If glares, if icy glares, if simply _insidious_ glares, if they could kill, Murtagh would have died in a fire with plenty of snake bites.

As for Murtagh's eyeline, he was decidedly looking at the floor.

"You are insinuating something, Murtagh, are you not? About my dedication to the well being of my citizens, I can presume, as always? I know you too well. Yes, too well. You _are_, without a question of doubt, and I believe you _are _aware, because you choose to be aware, that Belatona fell _yesterday_, are you not?"

The King moved closer.

"I am patronising you, I believe Murtagh, again? Then, another question:" He placed his fingertips together, rocking back and forward on his heels. Or, on the thinning air. He was still floating. "How _was_ your week... of absence without leave?"

_What a banal question._

"Satisfactory, sire." He sighed, interrupting the King's questioning – scathing – look. Because it was nothing but satisfactory. "Thorn and I visited the West Coast. I have not gone there in a long time."

"Ah!" The King grinned. "I have not seen the coast since your father was alive. With him, in fact. Were you yourself present? I have no idea. Absolutely none. It was glorious though, as everything was... back then. Did you not see the Western sunset? Puts 'baen to shame, and believe me Murtagh, _I am someone who has travelled_. Now, I believe I am pointlessly deliberating, and I believe we know each other _well_ enough to know that I do not like pointlessly deliberating at all. Oh, Murtagh, you and your sceptical looks. Absolutely hill-air-ee-oos." He even laughed a tinkling little laugh that made the untouched wine shiver slightly.

The King turned his back now, standing whilst looking somewhat thoughtfully out the east-facing, arched window. It was as if Our Excellency The Dark King was the pained but triumphant subject of a Late-Riderian Renaissance painting. _King Galbatorix: A man of honour_. It would decidedly be the title if Galbatorix had painted it. That this had little to do with the actual choice of materials, colours, technique, and artisanship was besides the point. He was a terrible painter, too. Murtagh's father was a good painter, could have been an excellent one, even a sublime artist, if memory would dare recall.

He then spoke:

"Whilst you were dilly-dallying in sunshine land, I have been thinking. Sceptical looks, you really are marvellous at them Murtagh!" Except that Murtagh honestly looked rather baffled than anything else. "I have been thinking about the directions of things – everything, war included, but since when was war ever _excluded?_ But firstly, this requires your co-operation. I presume your mission was a success?"

"Yes, sire."

"Why need I presume! Of course it was, of course it was..."

He swivelled around, just to _smile_.

A moment of silence.

A rather, long, strained silence.

Perhaps accidental – a blip in the performance.

"You are to present... ah, _the box_, to myself now Murtagh, are you not? As written, no?"

Murtagh stood and glared, his arms folded.

"Murtagh?"

That smile was very strained now. It was ripping into the corners of The King's face.

"_Murtagh?"_

_Was white jasmine ever a form of poison?_ Murtagh thought. He could smell the acidity soaking into the words. He opened his jacket, muttering a few magical words, and the charred remains of the bottom half of the box grew from a splinter of a pinprick into a lumbering thing filling both of his hands.

He tossed it into the floor. It sat exactly between the King and his Right Hand Man.

"What happened?"

A silence. Murtagh then felt a grating, grasping, unbearable noise at his ears.

"I set it on fire. _I set it on fire sire."_

"Mhmm. Can see that quite clearly, you didn't need to tell me _that_." This was terrible. The King looked _delighted_. "And _why_ did you set it on fire Murtagh?"

"Because..."

"Because? You can tell me. You can always tell me. You have _no choice_ but to tell me. Because you've never had a choice Murtagh. Or have you?"

_Fiendishly delighted._

"Because _you chose_ to set this on fire. Did you not? You're not _stupid_, boy. Which must mean you're mad. No? Or is _that _not it either?"

The evening sunlight then blasted through the windows, creating vast shadows against the King's face. He could feel them looming closer. He could feel where these trivial questions were _exactly_ leading.

"You got irritated, didn't you?"

"Sire–"

"Oh, you got mad! You got very, _very_ mad. Seething." He was getting closer now, moving closer to Murtagh, gaining on him, and the walls suddenly seemed to be bleeding red, a dark, cold, red, and the light suddenly seemed to be shining _black_. "I can tell – I know how it _feels_ to be mad –"

"_Sire_–"

"–I know how _you_ feel, specifically, and– Oh, Murtagh? Weren't you going to say something? Because _I _was just about to tell you–"

He was whispering now. His slithering words were tickling Murtagh's earlobes and crawling into the caverns into his mind.

"Exactly how _you _feel. Or exactly how you should be feeling right now. Feelings. Funny things. You know what? The Angry Murtagh, The Enraged Murtagh, Murtagh the Teenager, _The world doesn't understand me _Murtagh– please, _please_, will you stop being so insistent and _listen _boy. _To me. _"

Murtagh had not even opened his mouth at this point.

"Listen to me. You should be absolutely terrified now. You opened the box I told you not to, you _destroyed_ the box I told you not to, and you _jeopardised _nearly _everything_ I – we – had been working for–"

"Sire,there was _nothing_ in that box."

Galbatorix stopped speaking. He had been expecting this. Or perhaps, not at all.

"Oh, now this is interesting. Was there? Was there _really_–"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. This was a mission of utmost importance, sire." _And it was for nothing._

"And you should have treated it as _such_–"

_And so should have you._

Galbatorix stopped speaking again. Delightedly, even, as if expectations had been dashed and cut into two. And Murtagh was completely sure he did not hear a single syllable of that thought. But maybe he had. Or maybe he hadn't. Or maybe he was just Galbatorix.

If Murtagh expected the King to repeat his prior performance he had not yet caught wind of, he was utterly mistaken.

"Fine." He sighed, bitterly, exhaustively, despite utilising no effort at all. "So be it. I suspect the next coming weeks of hard graft will punish you enough, you _infantile – _urgh. We are bickering like father and son, aren't we?" He laughed hollowly. "Yes we are Murtagh; I see that pensive, doubtful look on your face again, which suits you so."

Murtagh then turned to leave. He had not been granted to leave, but he could not stand another moment of this and it was as worse as time to leave as any for the last eight years. The King did not attempt to stop him. He did, however, air a tentative request as Murtagh had reached the door. Well, tentative by Galbatorix's standards.

"Oh, and Murtagh? I expect you in court tomorrow, as usual. Well. The clowns there believe you have turned into a ghost – I suggest you appease them, it should be quite, ah... entertaining."

And Murtagh stormed out of the drawing room without another word muttered.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Simple enough chap. More Galbatorix again! Yes, this is deliberately got an 'I' at the front - I plan on using rotations of Roman numerals I to XIII throughout (hence the old title When Will The Clock Strike Thirteen?).

I wanted to keep this in reserve 'till tomorrow, since I put a chapter up yesterday but I've already written chapter 15 and 16 and it seems silly to keep this is reserve. Besides, I get my AS-Level results back tomorrow - they're exams which are taken in Junior year, the second last year of school, and they weigh heavily on university applications. So they're very important. I probably won't have the... energy to actually write something tomorrow. Wish me luck! Thank you and please review :)

**Restrained Freedom**: You saying that makes me realise how... insane everyone is in this fic XD. Everyone has their own insecurities, but pretty much everyone is slightly mad. Ah well. Thank you and I'm glad you liked the last chapter.


	15. The Thirteenth Hour

II: The Thirteenth Hour

* * *

><p><em>I cannot believe this. I cannot believe him<em>.

Candles and lamps and naked flames flickered, gingerly, where sunlight once had beamed. It was an hour past midnight, and Murtagh was stalking the floors of his personal quarters restlessly. Ruthlessly. The thin, brittle oak boards creaked and cringed with each footstep.

_I just – urgh, Lord Faulkner has forgotten the meaning of the word 'precise' again. None of them do. Useless, absolutely _useless. _I'll have to rewrite half of this myself. This is hell on a piece of cheap parchment. I could have – would have – done a better job despite not hearing a word of what was spoken_._ This is monstrous. I hate autocracy. I absolutely _despise_ autocracy._

And here its greatest spokesperson lamented its very existence.

_Why am I doing this? At least it wasn't Wellington: I think I'll declare a national holiday on the day I finish with his dismal handiwork. An excuse not to rise an hour before sunrise. An excuse to explain why ten thousand soldiers mysteriously disappeared in exchange for ten crowns, a collection of rubies, and his youngest daughter's virginity. Oh god, the court would have laughed at that one: it was even news to _me_ that she still had it... And this is only Thursday's papers – my god, there's a collection at least three foot high somewhere, hell, hell, hell._

His head fell into his hands.

_I just cannot believe this – I just cannot believe that... _

It had all been for nothing.

All that searching, all that scouring... those long weeks, _months_, had been for nothing.

The letter had not been the first time Murtagh had heard of the box. In fact, Galbatorix had eluded to it a great many times. Suggestions. Turns of the tongue. Letters, references, old files and facts and records – Murtagh had meticulously rifled through them looking for clues, signs, ideas. He had even touched the thick, leather-bound editions that lurked in Galbatorix's personal collection, a forbidden and hidden collection. His fingers' gentle touch had now graced works thousands of years old, transcribed by hand, with magnificence and delicacy beyond the _clack_ing of the mechanical stamps of an iron printing press. They were mad works, bad works, archaic works, lunatic works, _brilliant_ works; even in those, Murtagh had even looked for it. And then finally, his efforts seemingly fruitless, Galbatorix asked him to collect it and hand it to him in person. The box.

_The box_.

It was just a hunch, just a clue, just a thought... but it was _something_. Something which could have been a solution, a way out, an exit, a ticket on a one-way solo journey back to the long-forgotten land of Alaea with no questions asked _yes please_. Something that seemed to, not just complete, but transcend the war, the bickering, the Empire-Varden punch-up, the idiotic, childish _politicking _that reigned.

You know all that? It was actually nothing. Yes, thanks, and a side order of fries, if you please.

_And Galbatorix knew it all along. He was not surprised at all. He did not seem surprised at that revelation, at the grand reveal... at all. No questions asked. No anger, no tears, no slave children torched to death. No, nothing as normal as that. No tantrums. Nothing, absolutely – I cannot believe him, I cannot believe he has been bluffing, I cannot, I just_ cannot_ – I should be working. I should be working. You should be working Murtagh – I should be working; I have so much work to do..._

Murtagh slumped down at his desk.

He didn't do anything. He sat completely still.

He didn't even look at the pile of paper that had been left in front of him. He couldn't do that. If he did, he'd probably cry.

His desk. He used to _love_ his desk. It was a quiet, cold, and desolate place, perfectly suited to a quiet, cold, desolate boy. He used to sit up with a book at it on the fierce, winter days, his fingers wandering among the graveyard of an ancient forest.

_I should be working, shouldn't I?_

Murtagh grabbed a thick wad of files from the middle of the pile, tossing the top half in an astonished flutter behind him. It littered the floor. So be it.

He scanned the first page. First paragraph. Only two words of importance stuck to mind: Dras-Leona.

He dropped the paper as soon as he saw them.

_Thinking about the next loss already, are we now? _

Because it was a loss.

Every battle so far had been a loss. And that was with troops that were better trained, better equipped, better prepared, in greater numbers, with a vast and plentiful pool of resources, of grain, fuel, iron, weapons, defences, and so much gold – they had lost every battle.

It made no sense. It made absolutely no sense. This was on their land, playing to their rules: this wasn't even guerrilla warfare the Varden going for, it was pure _attrition. _It was all about whose coffers were deeper than whose. Who could throw the most men, the most living corpses, at each other. Nothing more, nothing less.

It was actually sort of sickening, when Murtagh thought about it depth. All those people. Dead. He rarely did think about it in depth, not as he used to: he lacked the time.

* * *

><p>He couldn't even think anymore.<p>

Maybe it had been the shadows.

Maybe it had been the door.

Maybe it had been the moonlight.

Maybe it had been the thought of Eragon for the first time since she had entered the room. The young dragon rider had been... growing on her. _Like streams of ivy tangling around a tree._ _Like vultures flocking to a rotting corpse._

Previously growing, that was. In a different world, in a different life. The Varden seemed to appear as a blasé pastime, a blip, a circle of events in her insignificant life time. Perhaps that was everything the Varden had actually ever been.

She killed that thought with a blunt silence.

_Eragon_. She could not clearly remember what his face looked like now. It was identical to any bland and lifeless elf's. Which is all he had become. Like herself.

Or maybe it just herself.

Strangled birds of a tarnished feather flocked together. But she was sceptical of that: if she wished to loathe herself for the rest of eternity she could have done it in the room.

Maybe it had been the thought of _Faolin_ for the first time since she had entered the room. That was possibly... more likely. There had no longer been any mornings that she could watch. It was still dark. It was still cold. It was still utterly black and white. No chances to remember how to live.

It occurred to Arya that despite existing for a hundred and five years, she had lived for very few of them.

_Was that what you had meant, all those years ago?_

Living.

_What does the word even mean?_

She knew its technical definition, its exact definition, its logical definition.

But what was the use of sense in a senseless world?

* * *

><p>In Cenuon, they had relied on the quantity of the firepower against elite, exceptionally trained, absolutely merciless hordes of elves. They had no chance. Instead of separating the forces, causing chaos and separating communication, before ambushing each select group or even single elf, there were so few of them, or had considered ingenuity or traps, snares, boulders – anything physical that would drain their magic to escape from – the Empire had sent themselves to the gallows. Who had blocked those suggestions? Galbatorix.<p>

In Feinster, a well-fortified and protected city, they had needlessly wasted thousands of lives in the north when the city could have been saved with a few battalions and some expertise, and at least drawn out the battle, if not won it. Naval forces that stubbornly remained in Teirm could have easily sailed south to fight, which could have crushed revolutionaries with a few well-placed canons. Who had blocked these suggestions? Galbatorix.

In Belatona, the city's forces were poor and its protection from outsiders was lacking. However, considering its inland position, it would have been more advantageous considering the diminishing Varden supplies, to begin attacking their supply routes and blocking any arrivals through ambushes, draining the force of power. If Murtagh had himself been at battle, along with more Empire forces which remained stalwart in the north in preparation for Gil'ead – an eventual massacre and a half: a complete Charlie Foxtrot-in-waiting_ –_ then the city itself would have had a fighting chance, or at least caused some more collateral damage. Instead of being completely trampled, completely torn to pieces, leaving the Varden hungry for more.

Who had blocked these suggestions? _There's no point in guessing, folks, no prizes today._

It was as if he wanted the Empire to lose. It was why he had searched for the box in the first place – there had to be more to the puzzle, more to it all. But of course, there had been nothing inside that much coveted box.

Murtagh flipped through the remainder of files, and within a few seconds, they had been thrown into the floor too, strewn like paper confetti. For a funeral; not a wedding.

_I'm supposed to be working I'm supposed to be working I'm supposed to be working._

He picked up another file. He threw it on the floor.

Another file. Thrown to the floor.

Another. The floor.

_I can't do this –_

Another. The floor.

_I just don't get it._

Another. The floor.

_I just can't... how could he? How could he do all this? How could he honestly –_

Another. The floor.

Another. The floor.

Another. The floor.

_Do you get it Thorn? Do see it? He's fucked with me again. He's fucked with me. He's made me waste all that time and that effort and that – oh lord, that monster, that despicable _reptile,_ that bloody-eyed slime-coated snake, that snivelling, sniffling, strangle-worthy _politician.

Another. Torn into pieces.

_I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this. _

Another. Burnt to a crisp.

_Are you going to protest Thorn because I bloody well can't hear you anyway so there's no point isn't there isn't there._

But Thorn did not respond. _You're probably sleeping. Oh, Fuck. Me. Senseless._

Another. Another. Another.

He gripped the paper in his hands hard. His dog-bitten fingernails dug through into his hard palms. They didn't make a scratch.

He remained absolutely still.

Murtagh couldn't do anything anymore. He couldn't 'work'. He couldn't 'play' – he hadn't been able to play since he was four years old, but that was beside the point.

What was there left?

He slammed the door of his study open. He left it like that – abused, used, and possibly broken. He slammed another door open. He slammed another. He was in a corridor now, having left his 'private quarters'. All the candles had been extinguished, no smoky haze left lingering, no scent or smell of what had been, the black wick cool to the touch. All the flames had been doused and had died. It was the Thirteenth hour, and there was no light left in the world.

He decided he'd go for a walk.

* * *

><p>Maybe it was the music.<p>

_You are being ridiculous_. She was being ridiculous.

_Ridicolo._

She had heard strands of it, that music. It swayed inwards, outwards, on the tides of an ocean. It was rich, a creamy wash of colour and taste and smell, and teeming with tendrils of life, swaying, gently, ever so swaying.

_Dolce._

And she had been curious, ever so slightly curious, since she had heard it. _It killed the cat. It killed the dog. It killed the child. It killed Faolin. _But she still wanted to hear more. _You're disgusting._ But she still wanted to hear more.

_Curioso_.

Then it suddenly stopped.

But she still wanted to hear more.

Arya, defied her resolve then. She did not know why_._ She defied those shadows, those sinister shadows that skulked around her room, waiting to pounce. Or did she just ignore them, those slithering shadows? It did not matter. She opened the door to her room, her arm shaking. The shadows burst outwards, spilled outwards, engrossed her, but she did not stay put.

Maybe it was the music. Maybe that was why she ran away.

She had her eyes tightly squeezed shut as she ran down the staircase – _ran_ – and opened the door to the courtyard, to the world outside, in the grip of the silence of the night.

She heard a distant clock strike once.

* * *

><p>Murtagh did not know where he was walking. He had no direction, no aim, and no idea. But he was beyond <em>caring<em>, he was beyond thought. His steps were powerful steps, exactly placed, confident steps in confident, fine-cut leather boots belonging to the second-in-command. Despite storming around the palace causelessly, with not a soul stirring, it was required that he would continue to act his part.

_I might as well be the circus act_.

He had only gone to a circus once, and the memory danced hazily in his mind, swaying with the melancholic, rolling scales of the wooden pipe organ and the mischievous trills of flutes and chimes. The world, then, was huge and vast, and the red and white stripes of the big top ballooned above him. He was three and a half, and he'd been smuggled out as an excuse for his mother, bored and fidgety as always, to _rebel_. He vaguely recalled gypsy dancers in gaudy colours and shimmering veils, and the smell of foreign, exotic, spiced pastries and sweets. It ended in tears when the clowns came in.

Murtagh did not like clowns.

His frustrated mother pulled her bawling son out with sharp tug of the arm, from the dizzying, glitzy hallucination to a wet field west of Teirm. She yelled at him. Loudly. Harshly – too loudly, too harshly. Almost desperately. Screaming. Like a child berating another.

It didn't scare him. He'd seen her scream before.

* * *

><p>She didn't know where she was going. It didn't matter anymore – it didn't matter, it wasn't the room.<p>

And that's all that mattered.

The music had died. There was nothing stirring now – not even the wind. She threw herself into empty corridors, around silent staircases, across abandoned courtyards. The world swirled and coiled around like a jumbled maze, an ensnaring mass of brickwork jungle. But it was dead.

She could only hear her own footsteps.

_But it's okay. You're outside. You're fine. You're here. You're coping._ _And you're still alive. _

Was she still alive?

The question – her question, _only me, I'm alone, no one else here –_ was reverberated around the confines of her skull.

* * *

><p>Murtagh did not often think of his mother.<p>

His other parent, the King's old Right-Hand man, tended to preoccupy his thoughts more often. His handiwork could be seen everywhere – in documents, in plans, in monuments and in paintings and in art, in conversations, polite or impolite, in mutterings and whisperings Murtagh deliberately chose to ignore. He was very much aware of his status of being an addendum to Morzan's name. That was another inevitable fact he generally tended to ignore. He was so used to the stories and muttering and rumours, the crazy, delightful rumours that the maids would gossip and indulge in, that Morzan really appeared to be another bedtime tale about a slithering shadow lurking beneath the bed, with fifteen arms and sixteen legs and plenty of dark, twisting, _strangling _tentacles.

Morzan didn't really seem like Murtagh's father. That this slimy, slick, grossly green snake-monster, this extraterrestrial _Morzan_ could be his very own father... the thought was actually laughable. Murtagh thought of his father even less than he did his mother.

But he thought of his mother now. He thought of her wide-eyed gaze, big and brown and blinking, like a mischievous wolf cub's. He thought of her hard, calloused, gritty hands and her pointy elbows that were terrible for hugging and holding and loving. He thought of the music in her voice – that when it murmured to him softly, warmly, richly; of how it tasted of forbidden secrets and delicious dreams...

And it was thinking of her he saw something shimmer. Something.

_Something._

It was not just a trick of the light.

* * *

><p>Arya heard a <em>step<em>.

_You're hallucinating. _

And then another.

_There's no one else here._

Another _step._

* * *

><p><em>Mother?<em>

It kept shimmering. The starlight streaming through the windows – it was _moving_. And now he wanted to see it. He _wanted_ to know. And it grew even brighter, even stronger, began to shape, began to form –

_Mother? Is that you? _

It looked a bit like a woman.

_Mama?_

* * *

><p><em>You're completely alone.<em>

It was a strong, intimidating, forceful step.

_You're._

It smacked the ground.

_Completely._

And lifted again, to lofty heights.

_Alone._

And then came down for more.

_There's no one else Arya – _

It was a _step._

_It's just you. It's just you, only you, and only will ever be you – _

It didn't belong to her.

* * *

><p>Murtagh had no idea why he thought it was his mother. He didn't even like his mother.<p>

_Are you going to say goodbye this time?_

She was a bitch. She had left him. And he hated her in the most infantile way. He didn't care.

But he still wanted to see her again.

_Are you going to say goodbye Mama? Are you? _

* * *

><p>She couldn't move. Arya had frozen to the spot. She didn't even look around.<p>

_It's going to end now._

Then she moved. She said she wouldn't move. But she did anyway. She wanted to see him. Because it was always a _him. _Her captor. Her master. _Him._

And she was curious.

_Curioso._

* * *

><p>It wasn't her. It wasn't Selena.<p>

But now Murtagh simply wanted to know.

* * *

><p>And then he grabbed her hand.<p>

He _touched _her.

No one, on that starry, starry night, was invisible. No one was magic. No one was hidden.

An elf and a human were holding hands. Of all the unlikely things.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** And _finally_ they meet. My exam results went well, so there's no reason to jump off a building, and this story is still on-going.

So guys, thoughts? (If you reviewed last time, then there is nothing else to say but that I love you to pieces =D)


	16. A Concerned Woman

III: A Concerned Woman

* * *

><p>The moon was not out that night. But the stars were – the stars were twinkling and shining in a shower of sparks just above.<p>

It was not simply Arya and Murtagh who had seen them.

A boy had been watching them. He was a boy in all aspects but official documentation – being sixteen years of age, he was supposedly a fully grown man. But the silhouette he cast – of a lanky teenager, with pointy elbows and knobbly knees, his stick-like legs dangling below the rickety wooden platform he was sitting on – it'd be impossible to not think him a boy. The fishing dock was rotting, abandoned, swallowed by swathes of reeds, but it had a beautiful view. Beyond he could see the southern edge of Leona lake, smooth, flat, and glinting in the starlight like a mirror.

He'd been trying to scry her now for two hours. And still, he couldn't see her.

_She's gone._

_I know, _the boy thought, frustration flaring up again._ I just wanted to try one last time. You don't need to tell me that._

_You've been sat here for two hours Eragon._

The boy gazed out at the lake. His head had slumped into his filthy hands; the fingernails were still marred with blood. It was a while before he answered.

_So?_

_I'm concerned. _

The words weren't anything out of the usual – he was used to 'be careful' or 'I'm worried' or 'don't be stupid you blundering idiot', the latter of the three being the most _common._ But it was the _tone_, the way she said the phrase... it wasn't your trademark, monotone, typical, _common_ warning said with a _common_ roll of the eyes, but she _sounded_ concerned. It was almost warm, almost trembling, the grunting, grizzling voice of a dragon smoothed and softened by the voice of a female.

It almost reminded him of Marian.

_About what? _He snapped, in reply, slightly distractedly.

_I'm concerned about you, little one. You're restless._

_I'm impatient._

_For what? The war is rolling along at a nice pace and we will eventually –_

_About her._

_We will have to wait Eragon. We are going to wait. _Her tone turned harsh and forceful now. It spat and hissed.

Behind the boy, the burnt and shrivelled wreck of eastern Belatona lay. Walls had collapsed and crumbled to the floor, exhaustively. Gnarled and rickety wood, blackened in soot, curled upwards like the ribs of a rotting carcass. Not a body could be seen. It was if they were never there. Or maybe Saphira had decided she would have an evening snack after all. It was all dragons ever had done in the village stories and tales – devour people whole with a lunge of a barbed tongue and the smacking of their lips. And it was all Saphira seemed to do now. Nibble on cattle, munch on herds, gobble up someone's life.

Eragon would have once been in awe of Saphira as she was now. Sitting, not next to him – he hadn't asked her too and she hadn't offered – but among the rubble and the remains of a living town, devoured. She was perched on a ramshackle tower, her head raised aloft, her talons white, bloodless, clean, and her scales glittering a devious midnight blue with the dawn of the night. Saphira looked like a queen.

It was majestic.

It was terrifying.

When Saphira acted like a dragon, Eragon would gulp his own words, nod, and do what she said. He would not speak. When her tone turned cold, harsh, and scathing, he would not answer back.

But this time, he would answer.

_I don't want to wait._

_Eragon, you _can't_ – _

_I want to find her, Saphira. I want to search for her. I want to find Arya. I want to go looking for her by myself. _

'Myself', of course, meant Eragon _and _Saphira. The dragons were simply an addendum to a Rider's prestige, after all, in the eyes of a _common_ person.

_The war needs you Eragon –_

_I don't care any more. _And he wanted to care about something. Just this once.

She was completely silent for a moment.

_Eragon?_

_Saphira, if we don't go looking for her tomorrow, I will leave by myself._

Silence. She didn't answer. Eragon knew she'd go with him. He could feel the reluctance and the guilt in her loathing. He could hear everything that she was thinking, after all.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I think this is the first Eragon PoV in... quite a while XD. Probably because I don't like Saphira at all as characters go. Eragon isn't amazingly in character in this fic - I've tried to keep the 'stupid, questioning, blunt farmboy' part of him alive, without making him as much as a Mary Sue as the books make him. In all honesty, I find some of the way CP writes his characters... bland. So I use a lot of OCs, as well as a lot of characters which we haven't heard much from.

Reviews:

**Eminem Bitches**: Eh, I'm a big Eragon x None supporter - so I don't really like ExA. I quite like MxA, probably because it's not the most perfect match in the world and it makes interesting reading. I think at heart I'm actually a really big FxA supporter.

: I've been trying to inject a bit of humour into things - you'll hopefully laugh at the next chapter ^^. I also think that's something really important that both Murtagh and Arya have in common - they were both very sheltered as kids, Arya having never left Ellesmera until she joined the Varden, and Murtagh pretty much hidden from the world for his own safety. Curiosity is a big part of their make up - they've both now seen the nasty side of living, and both are cynical of curiosity and wanting to see the world, but at the same time, they can't stop themselves. They're both rather hopeful characters, beneath their exteriors.

**tridentbonez123**: Thank you very much! Although trust me, it's a lot more complicated than just a captor and a prisoner ;D


	17. Malena

IV: Malena

* * *

><p>She certainly did not look like a threat. Murtagh would take no chances on a threat.<p>

This pale, sunken eyed, ghost of a girl, with her raven hair wild and tangled and splaying out like a broken fountain, with a blank face and hands, cold shivering hands... no, she could barely look after herself. Her hands were still shivering. Her hands were as cold as death. How long had she been out here, wandering? Spidery patterns and webbed lines of veins decorated those hands, swirling up to sharp, skeletal wrists – when was the last time she _ate_? Her dress was only a flimsy white thing that engulfed her completely... he would not be surprised if there was only a spindly stick beneath.

_If I had not found her now she would have probably have died in a few hours._

He should probably take her back to the guests' building and find her a spare room and some food, water and some blankets... _dear god, she could have died out here, the desert nights are freezing, what was she thinking, what on earth – _he then noticed the ears.

They were hidden, assassin's daggers, slick and sharp and deadly, their points only slightly pricking through her hair, the points of her ears. Pointed ears. Elf ears. _No, it couldn't be her, could it? Fate isn't that cruel – _but he stopped himself there. It _was_ that cruel. If he had learnt anything from his escapades and skirmishes with Eragon,it was that fate had a horrific sense of humour.

If it was her, if it was the elf from Gil'ead that he had rescued all those many moons ago, then she must have recognised him immediately.

_She must be absolutely terrified_.

Then another thought.

_Why the fuck hasn't she ran away yet?_

But she hadn't. It then occurred to Murtagh that the two had been standing together in silence for nearly a minute without moving. She needed help.

"I – ah, um... Do you need help?"

The question sounded much louder then he intended it to, shattering the silence. Murtagh was suddenly consciously aware of how _stupid_ it sounded. He tried again.

"Do you...Look, why haven't you ran away yet?" he asked, the question catapulting out of his mouth suddenly.

The girl's – _elf's_ – eyes bored into his. "I... I..." she stuttered quietly. "I... I... _I didn't want to run away anymore, Faolin!_"

She ripped her hand away from his and covered her mouth, her eyes widening in horror. The cry still echoed, bouncing against the walls, trembling along the windows. She definitely had not meant to say that aloud.

_Oh god damn it, she's completely batshit insane too._

He couldn't say he was actually that surprised.

"Look, um, you need help," he said. "If you wander out here much longer you'll freeze to death. I can get you something to eat... and some blankets..."

He carefully grabbed hold of her wrist, and pulled it slowly away from her face. _Still cold._

The elf was simply... staring at him now. In shock. Slightly amazedly, even. He then tugged her hand gently, as if indicating to go, and she nodded rapidly four times, stepping forward from behind tentatively, as if she was deathly, deathly afraid of slipping, as if she was made of a thousand splinters of solid glass and could shatter at any moment.

They began to walk. Slowly, tentatively, taking her carefully around each corner, guiding her wordlessly up each step. Murtagh noticed how _hard_ her fingers gripped onto his wrist whilst fumbling through the darker passages, her blunt nails piercing into his skin. She was afraid – _does she think I'm taking her away? To the dungeons? To be tortured? That I'm playing mind games with her?_ Murtagh considered assuring her that she would be fine, although he was still afraid that she'd scream and run away if he even did something as sudden as mutter a word, now they were moving.

_She wouldn't believe me anyway._

He had decided instead to take her to his quarters. He couldn't take _an elf_ to the guests' rooms and leave her there – what if she was found? There'd be uproar, panic – they'd want her _burned alive. _Elves were enemies, elves were deceitful liars, elves were _not to be trusted. _The war just gave humanity an excuse to conjure up twisted and imaginative ways to ruin them; humans had never particularly liked elves in the first instance. Murtagh wasn't greatly fond of them either. _What an earth is an elf doing in Uru'baen anyway? She can't be a spy, she's nearly dead_... but that didn't stop the possibility that she'd tell anyway. Spill all his secrets. She could ruin everything he was working for... _oh, what do I care? What have I ever cared about winning or losing?_

The pair approached Murtagh's quarters, the door still hanging ajar.

"_Brisingr," _he muttered. The candles in his room sparked alight again.

The King's second-in-command had been gifted with several rooms for his own amusement upon his return to Uru'baen eight months ago. They were luxurious; the large, airy rooms had exquisite finery casually draped over every surface in scarlet and vast canvases of artwork hung across the walls in a clutter. Every detailing had been lavished in a mockery of gold and silver. Murtagh had witnessed servants inch delicately in and out, polishing every handle and every edge with questioning eyes, and a reluctant sigh of reverence – quietly, silently, of course, servants were not supposed to be noticeable at all. There was something too nonchalant, too carless in the way splendour had been splattered across the rooms, for simple peasant girls in their muddied and worn boots to ever feel truly comfortable in them_. _The elf, however, on entering, did not flinch.

"Lie down here." He had indicated an untouched chaise-longue which he had never used. Murtagh rarely spent any time in the main reception room.

The elf gazed up at him quizzically, before tentatively sitting down.

"I have some blankets in a spare bedroom I can fetch you. It's warmer here, and there's a fireplace I can keep going for you if you need," he said. He had no idea what he was doing, but this seemed the right sort of thing to do – it occurred to him then that he should probably ask _her_ if there was anything she needed. He took a breath.

"Er, are you sure you're okay?" he asked. "I mean – idiotic question, I apologise, but – well, is there anything else you need?"

The elf stared blankly at him for a moment, before gingerly shaking her head. _It's as if she's never seen the world before, _he thought._ She's just completely out of it._

A moment of silence.

"I'll go fetch you those blankets then."

He entered the spare bedroom – unused – and ripped the thick covers, the shrug, the layers of warmth off, and flung them into a pile. He threw open the wardrobe doors and grasped the spare duvets and blankets and furs, all soft and sweetened with scents, never touched, never used, and tossed them too into the pile. He hoisted the whole lot into the lounge. She was still lying there, on the chaise-longue, eyes fixed determinedly at the ceiling. He'd half expected her to not be there.

"I've got blankets," he said, throwing a couple of the thicker ones at her. "If you want more in the night, they're there for you to take if you get cold... should I make you some tea? I don't like it, myself, I take coffee... but I know elves tend to drink tea..."

She replied with a blank look.

_This is more frustrating than reading Lord Wellington's abysmal mission reports. _He sighed. In the end, he made both – both tea and coffee, two china cups full of each, and placed a few slices of a bread loaf he had stored away in the pantry for god knows how long onto a tray. It probably tasted awful – but it was somewhat edible, still.

He brought it through to the lounge, setting the tray delicately on an oak side table he had dragged within her reach. He left it there, for her to pick at as she wished, whilst he set about prodding coals into an unused fireplace, attempting to light them, and attempting to not glance over his shoulder at the elf. Murtagh was more used to setting haphazard piles of rickety old branches alight surrounded by wilderness. He managed to set a fire going, the coals glowing a rosy red as the flames crackled.

He turned around. The elf was still staring upwards, with a duvet lopsidedly tossed over her. The tray looked untouched – but on closer inspection, two slices of bread had been neatly swallowed with not a single crumb left. Neither tea or coffee had been to her fancy though.

"I'm going to retire for the night. I'll be working in my study. It'll be... over there." He indicated to a doorway on the left side of the room. "If you need me, that is. You should get some rest."

He left it at that. He was fed up of awkward sentences already – no half-witted goodbyes. She wasn't going anywhere. He _hoped_ she wouldn't be going anywhere. He took the coffee – both of the cups – and left her there, staring hopelessly at the ceiling.

* * *

><p>Light broke through the windows of Murtagh's study when he woke.<p>

He'd fallen asleep on his desk, his head propped up on a pile of torn up pieces of parchment, scrunched together into little, frustrated balls, and cold, hard wood. He flicked them off the surface with a sweep of his hand, scattering them over the floor. Had he really fallen asleep? It couldn't have been any more than three hours. Any less and he would have flown into the sun to personally smash its beaming and brilliant yellow face in. He groaned. _Thank god I'm staying in Uru'baen today._

The room was strewn with opened books tossed on the floor, circled maps crumpled together, and a forgotten dictionary – oddly – was filled with bookmarks and notes. One china teacup lay on its side. The other had been smashed – somehow, it was too bothersome and tiring to recall – and its contents dribbled over the floor.

_And my shirt._

His jerkin was undone and he had split coffee on his shirt. Had he absent-mindedly filled those teacups with hard liquor? No, he defiantly wasn't hungover – he'd only been hungover once in his life. Last week. And he'd never be hungover again.

No, he was just _tired_.

_Thorn?_

_Murtagh!_

The sudden rush of enthusiasm and excitability and energy in return to the question battered him to the wall.

_Not today Thorn, please, _he groaned. _I can't go riding with you later either. _

The wave of complete disappointment nearly threw Murtagh to the floor.

_I really can't. I've got piles of work to catch up on and I'm so goddamn tired. I'd slip off after the first turning into some unfortunate soul's pumpkin patch. No, for fuck's sake Thorn, that is not a funny thought. It is not funny. Really. Please._

Murtagh forcibly blocked him from his mind before he could deal with the frantic spluttered apologies of an over-excitable dragon. It was too exhausting to deal with Thorn now. The dragon _hated_ sitting still – he wanted to see and explore and do. Stuck in his holdings, prevented from freedom, he clung to any thought of escape, and did _not let go._ Usually, Murtagh was sympathetic. But not today.

Grumbling, the Rider stumbled into the main reception room, intending to find a clean white shirt in his own bedroom. _And a razor. I need to shave._

He'd forgotten the elf was there.

She was asleep. He was certain elves did not sleep – waking dreams, the term was technically – but there was something unquestionably... peaceful, about her, as peaceful as a half-corpse could be. The only strain was the rise and fall of her chest, the gentle breathing. She was definitely lost in a warmer, kinder, softer dream world of her own.

_I wish I was there._

He pulled a chair up to her side. Was she _his _elf, the elf from Gil'ead? The more he scrutinised her now, without the earth-shattering unblinking stare in return, the more he was unsure. Black hair, pale skin, skinny. Weren't all elves like that? Weren't all elves graceful, poised, and intoxicatingly beautiful? He could recall watching them – just watching them – taking Cenuon, killing people and burning things in Cenuon, astounded. _Mesmerised._ They ran liked the rivers flowed. The women were Amazonian goddesses, plated armour wrapped tightly around each blossoming curve, each ripening bosom, exotic fruits to not just be picked, but to be _gorged carnally_. Their thick, creamy thighs would sway sumptuously as they ran, sleek and delicious, as they stabbed an unfortunate footsoldier in the throat. And then there were the _men_, those elfin men, they spoke in velvet, in satin, and their delicate, spidery whispers, they would brush ears and lips and tongues, they would send mortal hearts of hardened men aflutter like a storm of butterflies.

It was very disturbing. _Incredibly _disturbing_._

And it made him understand exactly why humans hated them so much.

This elf, however, the elf in front of him, didn't look beautiful at all. She looked _sick_. She looked like _death_. It made his skin crawl; infested with insects. It was all the disturbing without the erotic.

And she was now awake. Glaring.

"Good morning," Murtagh said quietly. He met her gaze without flinching.

"Good morning," she replied curtly. It was spoken even quieter.

_Pleasantries, eh?_

"I... am glad you are still here. I hope you feel well rested," he said, slowly. She was still glaring at him. "But, as far as I am aware, the King is not aware of your presence here... _yet_. If you feel fit enough to leave, then I shall not stop you. It is not my place to advise you, especially considering my _position_ in the grand scheme of things. But..." he trailed off.

The elf was still glaring at him. She did not look pleased. Murtagh hid a scowl.

"I am not keeping you here. At all. If you want to leave, do it. Open door. Over there," he pointed to the door of his quarters, which was still wide open.

She was still glaring at him.

"Look–_"_ he was cut off by the sound of a shrill bell, and seven fierce chimes of an irritated grandfather clock stooped in a corner. Murtagh jumped to his feet.

"The maid will arrive with a tray of breakfast for me soon. I suggest you hide, and hide now, unless you _want_ to be found and have your mind ripped open and ravaged and fed to the bloodthirsty hounds," he said, glaring at the elf.

She did not move.

"Can't you hear? _Hide!"_ he stepped forward as if to grab her and pull her forcibly up, but stopped himself.

There was a moment of silence.

A spindle-like maid slunk into the room, her face sullen, her demeanour rigid, with a large tray with a series of delights and various foreign bites.

"In the study, as usual, sire?" she asked timidly.

The maid was looking at Murtagh directly now. Her stumbling gaze did not even waver in the direction of the elf.

"Not today," he replied. He slowly indicated to a second glass side table near where the elf was lying. "Over there."

The maid dutifully did so. Her eyes jumped questionably towards the pile of blankets next to the chaise-longue, and then to the other tray with two cold, untouched priceless teacups and a few measly slices of bread. Murtagh ensured that his gaze met hers in a way that she would definitely prefer _not_ to gossip about what she had just seen.

But she did not look at the elf. Not in the slightest. Not a flicker, not a trace. It was as if she wasn't there at all.

The maid curtsied slowly and fully, with wisps of blond hair that had escaped her hastily placed cap brushing the floor. Murtagh nodded curtly in response. She left the room, closing the wooden door behind her with a hushed click.

He inhaled slowly, letting the muffled echoes of her footsteps gradually fade.

He then sat down opposite to the elf. "I see."

Or rather, he was the only one who _could_ see. No one else could. She was completely invisible – Murtagh vaguely recalled her being difficult to see when he first approached her; he had probably inadvertently broken a charm of some kind.

She was still glowering at him.

"How long have you been like this?"

She did not reply.

"How long have you been here – in Uru'bean – then?"

She did not reply.

"How –"

"Why did you help me?" she spat, breaking him off. It was an accusation, not a question. "Why?" she demanded.

Murtagh was... thrown. His eyebrows briefly curled upwards like an unsure question mark. He remained silent.

"_Why?"_

"You were going to dieout there," he said without thought.

The elf sat up sharply. Her eyes – cavernous, empty and dull – spoke a sentence he did not wish to hear.

_What if I wanted to die?_

Silence. It was a frigid, bitter silence.

"Look – you can have the breakfast. It's yours. I'll cope without. I'll be working in my study for the morning if you need to find me. Do what you like."

He tried not to give the elf a look of disgust as he left to find himself a clean shirt.

* * *

><p>When he started organising facts, and files, and paper, he noticed it was there.<p>

It was still there as he re-ordered the bureaucratic minefield that was his study, and whipped all the cluttered papers away. Lying on his desk. Leering at him.

He ignored it. He began to work.

It was still there. The book.

He continued working, undisturbed.

_Tales of the Western Seas: Murtagh the Pirate Lord._

He continued working.

He had not removed it from his bag – at least, he could not recall doing so. It should have been untouched.

He continued working.

He looked at the book again.

_This is a distraction. You should be working, Murtagh._

He picked the book up, his fingers sliding across the worn binding, and slowly lifting the flimsy volume aloft.

He put it down again.

If had wanted to have read the children's tale, he would have done whilst we was travelling with Thorn last week. _But I decided to witter on about forgotten Alaen political philosophy instead. _His face crumpled. He was not the sort to get distracted. Usually.

_Silly Murtagh, _chuckled a particular dragon.

_I could say the same of you, red-eyes._

Murtagh sighed, flinging yet another draft of a carefully cleanly written letter at the floor. He needed a drink – _a caffeinated one_. Working with Thorn humming loudly in the backdrop was difficult. Working with Thorn humming loudly in the backdrop, and the elf watching him impossible.

She was there. Curled up in a velvet armchair, her arms wrapped around her knees. Watching him. Watching everything he was doing.

Murtagh had offered her books, food, entertainment, a map of Uru'baen that she could explore, directions to the library, directions to the theatre – but she did not answer anything. She was content to watch him.

It was _creepy_.

Was she spying on him? Elves were excellent spies, they said – she could have been. Murtagh was doubtful, though. She didn't seem very elfin.

He had tried asking her questions. Where she had come from, what she was doing here, how she had ended invisible – but he got no answer. He then tried pleasantries – Murtagh _hated_ pleasantries – but still tried asking how she was, if she was okay, what were her thoughts on Uru'baen, if she liked the city, had she seen the Theatre yet – the Uru'baenite Theatre scene was famous, of course – but he got no answer.

It was an _idiotic _question. How could an _invisible_ elf go and see _the Theatre?_

He gave up after that.

There was silence, and Murtagh was content with silence.

He was surprised Thorn didn't ask her any questions. He was surprised that Thorn wasn't that bothered by her appearance at all, in fact. As if he had known. But Thorn hadn't known – if he _had_ discovered an elf lurking around the Winter Palace, he would have delivered her to his feet covered in slobber. Thorn had made a shriek of protest at that.

Flinging his head back over the arch of his chair, his black – _it's not _black; _it's dark brown – _hair flopped out of his eyes, swinging. The elf, still as a Stoic, had not moved, and she was still glaring at him, except now she had span upside down along with the rest of the clutter.

He stood up, leaning against the sun-bathed panelling of the room, his arms flopping in a rough crossed position. He'd forgotten to ask the most important question of all.

"What's your name?" he said, somewhat blankly.

She looked up. Her dark, dark, green eyes focused on his dark, dark, brown ones.

"Malena," she replied.

_She's probably lying,_ Murtagh thought. Besides, if she _was_ the elf from Gil'ead – she probably was, although Murtagh could still not tell – he was sure her name was not Malena. He was pretty sure that _his_ elf's name began with an 'A'. He had not asked her name when he was with the Varden – _with the Varden? I was with the Varden? _The thought still made him cough and splutter on his own words. He could recall Eragon telling, no, singing cheerily to him her name, twirling in the desert winds as he muttered it, laughing – he had fawned over her, hadn't he? Grinned ruddy ear to ruddy ear just at the sight of her bruised and battered body. He had probably learnt her name then. That was last Autumn. It had been nearly a year since then. The memory was so surreal, was so questionable, and was so unlike Murtagh's life that it seemed to be a lost dream itself. And like all whimsical, fantastical dreams, it had faded past memory.

* * *

><p>Later, he picked the book up again. Inside the yellowing, mottled cover, he noticed, for the first time, five carefully, painstakingly inked words.<p>

'_This book belongs to Marty.'_

_Names are important_, he could recall being told – he was not completely sure who told him that; it was long, long ago, reaching back into the far yonder of his memory, and Murtagh had been told many pieces of terrible advice by a terrible number of people in his short time on this dear earth. _Name everything you love. Don't lose it. You'll regret it_. And so Murtagh did, dutifully. Books, especially. He always named his books. Murtagh had dearly loved his books.

'_This book belongs_ _to Murtah.'_

Not much had changed in a hundred years, if Wombat's 'guesstimation' of the book's age was _remotely_ correct.

It was enough for him to start reading it. He noticed the elf slightly raise her eyebrows as he put his quill down, and he stopped working.

* * *

><p>They ate lunch together.<p>

He had requested for two lunches to be delivered _privately_ to his quarters, and slid a half-crown into the stiff, reddened hands of the servant as she turned dutifully away, to ensure no questions would be asked.

_They'll eventually gossip. They always will. _But for now, they would remain silent. They'd probably come to the conclusion that he'd _finally_ found himself a mistress, an enchanting seductress, a _woman_. Not an elf. Not, at least, an elf who was entirely likely a high-up in the Varden. He was not sure what the penalty for protecting an elf was, and how it'd technically be classified. High treason, possibly? _It'd make a wonderfully juicy political scandal, regardless of the legal implications._ That was probably punishment enough, he mused.

"I don't eat meat."

The two were seated in a typically austere Uru'baenite design dining room. Dark and dismal portraits loomed from the walls, their eyes beady, watchful, their lips curling and sneering in differing forms of distaste, disgust, and dissatisfaction. The thick, heavy scarlet curtains Murtagh had hoisted open, but little light petered into the room, if at all. Ghosts could wander in the room unperturbed. Murtagh knew that Uru'baenis though little of food – it was such a _carnal_ desire, and tended to chomp on it nervously, distractedly, afraid of their own uncivilised _decadence_, although he often had wondered judging by this room they simply despised the thought of digestion altogether. He had never eaten in the room until now. He thought it'd be _polite_.

"Ah," he said, frowning. "You should have told me."

She simply glared in response – she was awfully practised in it, and it reminded him of himself as a child. Almost expectantly, almost exasperatedly, she glowered – Murtagh was not sure what the expression was. It was quite possibly patronising. He met her glare with equal displeasure.

He then rose from the other end of the table, lugging his steaming plate of duck along with him and several delicate antique pieces of cutlery, and then sat down in the vacant chair adjacent to her. _I hate long tables,_ he had decided. He began shifting food from his plate to hers – the meat shifted to his plate, and the salad selection, the condiments, the sauces and toppings, all the additional non-carnivore elements of the meal topped onto hers. He was especially careful to ensure her cutlery only touched the additions and his only the meat. She then realised what he was doing.

"You can't eat _just_ meat," she said, her tone rising in surprise.

"Yes I can," he replied politely. He even smiled sweetly in response.

"But..." she trailed off, her face turning livid pink in guilt.

_I never knew I could be so vengeful,_ he thought to himself, smiling. The elf was staring into her lap. She did not touch the food for five minutes. Murtagh decidedly ignored her, cutting away contentedly at the duck. He didn't even _like_ duck. But food was food.

"Sorry."

It was stuttered, savagely, almost angrily. Spat out. Like she did not want to say the word at all.

"Excuse me?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

"I said 'sorry'. You're eating a meal that you did not desire because of me."

Murtagh nearly laughed, half amused, half baffled.

"If you put it _that _way..." he said, withholding a chuckle, "then I apologise also for not asking prior for your preference."

"_No_, I insist," she said, her tone hard as iron. "It is _my own fault_ for refusing to speak about my... peculiar habits."

"Don't be ridiculous – "

"Don't patronise me."

Murtagh would have protested then, until he was struck into silence when she grabbed the plate of duck off him, forcefully, and began eating it herself.

She ravaged at it, grinding away at it, with her knife and her teeth, gnawing and gnashing with such ferocity, and slurping and swallowing with a hearty dose of gravy stuck down her throat. The duck was ripped to pieces, to shreds, gorged as she swallowed whole mouthfuls, bones pricking out of her lips –

"You're not supposed to eat that part – "

– but she did it anyway, licking them clean, grasping at the tendons with ravenous bites, her hands almost clawing at the meat, her fingernails stabbing away, slashing, grabbing handfuls and smacking them into her overflowing mouth, like she despised, she loathed, she _hated_ everything about that piece of juicy, tender duck and _needed_ to rip it, to tear it, to bite it to pieces, to tiny pieces of nothing.

She ate every single piece of duck. Nothing was left.

It was enough to make Murtagh never want to touch meat again.

"Malena – " he said, before he stopped himself. The name sounded completely wrong spoken aloud.

Her face remained completely blank. It remained completely emotionless. The remains of an _animal_ were smeared over her face. But she was still blank. It was her hands – her hands were shivering though, her body pale, and shivering, and shaking.

It was then he realised she was waiting for him to finish. _Politeness_. Murtagh insisted several times that he would not, that she was being ridiculously stubborn, that she was going to be sick if she waited much longer, but she would not leave the table. So he tentatively ate the salad in silence.

"Thank you," she mumbled quietly, meekly, her words shaking. She nodded, and left the table.

Murtagh waited five minutes before he fetched the bucket.

* * *

><p>"Here... is a bag of sovereigns. Don't lose it. And here are some keys to my quarters. Don't lose that either," he said, begrudgingly holding out some various items to her. "Look, I'm... not brilliant at entertaining guests. I'm mad enough to trust you to entertain yourself. You can even leave and never return. I won't care."<p>

The elf shot him a questioning look. _His _elf.

"I'll be back from court in four hours." He stared questionably in return at the elf, before he suddenly added: "If you need me," on the end.

Thorn started laughing. Murtagh mentally told the dragon to shut his trap or he'd stuff it with _duck_. And then he turned to leave the elf, the elf that was probably from Gil'ead, whose name probably began with 'A' – _or was it, 'O'_? _I can't quite recall – _, the elf with cold hands and dark green eyes who hated ducks more than anything in the world, in his quarters. By herself.

He didn't say goodbye. That was too awkward.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I had great fun writing this chapter. Murtagh must be pretty loaded to afford fresh _duck_ when Uru'baen is next to a _desert_. I think the lunch scene is probably one of my best scenes written yet. And before you get worried, I'm not a great fan of the elf worship parade either. They're mesmerising, yes, but beauty isn't everything in the world. There's actually a surprising amount of anti-elf sentiment among humans, although it's mostly hushed. You guys probably got that idea already from Dorian's chapter earlier (that was really half the point of that chapter).

**Reviews: **(Thank you very much for them =D)**  
><strong>

**Artyfan: **Oh yeah, I'm greatly fond of romances that spring from friendships, which aren't all about love. You're probably right about MxA being implausibly but incredible - it's a very unlikely match, with lots of difficulty, but I thought I'd give it a chance to shine.**  
><strong>


	18. An Ugly Portrait

V: An Ugly Portrait

* * *

><p>And then suddenly, there was silence.<p>

She did not like it.

Before, there had been mostly silence. _Mostly. _The scratching of an ink-tipped quill flicking away, or the gentle flutter of a turned page, or an occasional, gently muttered question: "What do you think of Helocentricism?" She would ignore it. It was her duty.

It was a different kind of silence. Arya knew silence being the whispers of a forest, the shuffling of leaves, of pattering feet, of a trickling stream. And Arya knew silence as nothing. But she was not accustomed to the silence of polite company.

It was disgusting.

Arya did not like courtesy. _Whoever heard of a discourteous elf?_

But she did not like it. It was who she was. She was accustomed to twittering, tweeting, chirping elves constantly, endlessly, relentlessly singing, crooning, laughing, humming – although never speaking. Layers and layers of babbling, senseless, lifeless music that would witter and wander whimsically – oh, it was _noisy_. So noisy that Arya could not hear anything above it. It was another form of silence.

But she was not accustomed to this particular _courtesy_, this polite, humane silence.

What was more disgusting is that she actually liked it.

She did not _mind_ the company of Morzan's son.

He definitely _was_ Morzan's son. She had known it from the moment he had grabbed her, seized her, taken her away. Morzan's spawn. The son of the devil. The ruthless red rider. The King's Right Hand man.

She had known it was him. His face – angled, hooked, sharp – was his father's. His father's and his father's only. And she had seen him before.

He was a monster. Just like his father, too. A ruthless, callous, evil, calculating murderer. He had killed many. Remorselessly. Without thought. He was a traitor, a fiend, a creature of the night that served only to suck the glory and the magnificence of this world. Despicable. Worthy of only the lowest, cruellest, darkest form of loathing.

_Worthy of being trapped in a room for seven days._

She decided to use her time with proactively, usefully, dutifully. She would observe his every movement, collect his every word, make careful note and number of his actions, his plans, his future propositions and ideas for the Empire's army. She would fill her ugly little head with these images, and release all her memories directly to the Varden as soon as she returned. Because she _would_ return. He had trusted her. He had trusted her with his gold, his filthy, blood-stained _barbarian_ gold, and she would betray him.

_Traitor._

But she did not care. She did not care, just as he did not care. He was _barbaric._ The man that had saved her life was _barbaric._

_It was not his life to save. He should have left me to die. He should have._

Because Arya did not deserve to live.

Not after today. Not after she had indeed _not_ despised the company of a most _loathsome_ man.

Because Arya did not mind his silence. She did not mind the sound of books and quills and bumbling philosophic remarks and awkwardly phrased small talk that he seemed to detest and whimsical smirks and smiles.

Arya was supposed to hate it. Arya was supposed to despise it with every fibre of her being. But she didn't.

_You're disgusting._

She was disgusting. Disgusting as a roasted duck.

* * *

><p>It was spring time in Ellesmera. The flowers were in bloom, swelling in colour, in succulent, exotic scents. It was beautiful. That Ellesmera had always been beautiful and was always in full bloom was beside the point. It was lost forever in a flood of May's blossom, entranced by a hurricane of delicate petals, that wafted through elfin homes and elfin toes on elfin floors of sweetly sung wood. There was no summer in Ellesmera, no autumn, and no winter. Only spring.<p>

It was to this entourage of twittering birds and adornments of rosebuds that would never bloom that a young, delectable, elfin Princess awoke. _The_ elfin Princess. She swept upwards, most gracefully, from her cot, dressed in finest satins and silks of silver, and danced towards her bedroom window. The dawning sun had blessed the world in rosy yellow and soft oranges so gentle she could stroke, which she greeted in full glory.

"Oh, what a beautiful morning..." she muttered, her delicate, white fingers resting thoughtfully on her flawless, white skin. That she was always beautiful was beside the point.

Arya had always been surrounded in the finest beauty, ever since she was born exactly sixty-six years ago. Her rooms, her quarters and décor, consolidated by her mother's insistence, were to be filled with a bounty of fresh flowers, of lilacs, lilies, tulips and peonies. Each morning had once begun with crooning of a flock of magical skylarks, waking her with spring's gentle melodies. Her clothes were to be spun by ancient silkworm queens coveted by dukes and earls and marquis and _emperors_. (Not that the E-word – _Empire_ – was ever allowed to be spoken. But the mischievous Princess Arya would think it regardless; it was one of her most dangerous, most _delicious_ secret words. She was a Princess, after all. She did what she felt fit.)

Her distraught mother, from the day she first suckled the Princess at her breast, had adorned her with endless gifts and trinkets, objects of splendour, diadems with emeralds large enough to choke on, butterflies – Arya had always loved butterflies – encased in silver and gold, preserved forevermore. Her childhood toys were intricately painted antique dolls or clockwork flying dragons, presented to her by the finest artisans and craftsmen, elves twice her height and two-hundred times her age, who would bow gracefully to her feet, spellbound, and whisper in her ear: "This is for you, _My_ _Butterfly Princess."_ She liked to have men flatter her so. Her mother had always disapproved of their sultry smiles – further reason for Arya, with age and ripening beauty, to cultivate them.

Everything about Princess Arya's life had been beautiful. Even past the age of sixty, into adulthood, it was considered beautiful. She had never seen blood. The Princess had not been permitted to see something as _common_ or _feral_. She had never bruised, and her skin had never mottled – like all other elves, she masked her own true appearance with a beautiful skin. Arya did not know what she truly looked like. She had never seen a windswept autumn day – something which she had always dreamed to have done, if she had ever lived another life. She had, despite precise, perfect, masterful skill with a sword, never sweated more than a droplet. And for the entirety of her lifetime, she had never cried – only let one, silent, translucent tear wash down her cheek, a pearl that would only amplify her beauty.

As usual, as part of her morning rituals, the beautiful Princess Arya would saunter, at the strike of dawn – for there were no clocktowers in Ellesmera – to one of many Royal rose gardens. There was something slightly _odious_ about the endless beauty, Arya had once mused during this walk, although she had not thought much more of it, placing the thought at the back of memory. She had never known anything else. For now, she was going to pick flowers, as was expected of her, as she always did.

"Good morning, your Highness."

"Good morning, Faolin," she replied, with an amused smile. This was ritual.

She liked Faolin. She liked his silver hair, how it didn't gleam in the sunlight, and was slightly dull. Not quite perfect. Not quite brilliant. She admired him for it, even. He was one of her _favourites_ – an old friend, who she had often seen at this time, caring for his favoured plot meticulously. She would often sit in the morning, contentedly with a passage of poetry or a pearl-coloured fan, whilst watching him work. The two were content with silence. It was a mutual secret, a subdued, gentle retreat from the world of Ellesmera, and its continuous, relentless babbling. Something that the two of them shared alone, and had done since Faolin was fifty and Arya fifteen. A secret. Just between them. Arya loved secrets.

Princess Arya's _favourites_ were always secrets. They were considered _unsuitable_, of course – of unworthy rank, unworthy wealth, unworthy beauty – where was the amusement in choosing someone that _was?_ If she were to choose someone suitable, of course, her mother would frantically push her into declaring them her longstanding mate. _Urgh_.

No, where _was_ the amusement in that? Where was the passion, the romance, the danger – the _lust_? Where were the showers of hopeless compliments, of silly gifts and trinkets, of flattery? Where were those frantic whispers, those _forbidden_ words so delicious? Where were the impassioned promises of distant stars and lost, uncharted oceans, of lustrous and unknown horizons, of the implausible, of the impossible, of the world _outside?_

Where was the _fucking?_

Fuck. It was, like _Empire_, one of those excellent forbidden words. It would be ... impertinent, as her mother might have phrased it, for Princess Arya to utter something so coarse, so common, so _uncivilised_ aloud_. _It wasn't a word to be spoken. _Because it is true, of course, _she thought_. _All elves were the same. _All elves fuck_. Just like the stories said they did. They loved _fucking._

Arya, of course, did what was expected of the typical elf, and exceeded it. She was twice as disgusting, twice as dramatic, twice as insular, twice as self-righteous. It was expected of a Princess. Of course, once the fucking had been done with, Arya disposed of the _favourite_. She could do better than used goods.

She'd fuck another.

How delightful was the phrase! Fuck. It was her favourite forbidden word. Just as Faolin was her favourite _favourite_.

"What are you preparing to grow this spring, Faolin?" she asked then, her words gently spoken.

"Ah," his expression sparkled. "I was planning on something... softer. My Camaïeux turned out very well last season, but I thought I would try for something different."

"Oh, but you _cannot!_ Your Camaïeux roses were absolutely _glorious_ Faolin – marvellous, very beautiful – "

"Not as beautiful as you, Miss Arya," he said with a certain smile.

"You flatter me," she said, unable to prevent a secretive smile breaking over her face, "But I still cannot see why you would do away with those wonderful Camaïeux! Those were worthy of an _award_ – "

"Miss Arya, you know I would not have accepted an award won by bribery – "

"You _deserved_ to win recognition for those roses, Faolin, and I could have _helped_ you, honest to my heart – "

Arya was not entirely sure of what the phrase meant, but she uttered it regardless. She had been criticised for being insincere, oft in recent days by her_ mother_, and phrases such as this, littered within her speech, she hoped would make her sound more so.

"Miss Arya." His eyes now bored directly into hers. "If you must know, I decided on this year's selection on another's request."

"Oh?"

"I cannot say." His expression was deadly serious. _Deadly_. Another forbidden word.

"Always so _mysterious_, Faolin, always..." she sighed in exaggeration, rolling her eyes ceremoniously. But he would come around. They always did.

She waited impatiently for half an hour, looming over his work, twisting her fingers, pretending to be absolutely engrossed in the quality of the flowerbeds directly next to his, before leaving him in silence. _He will search for me later, _she thought, a wicked smile gracing her face. _They always do._ Besides, Arya liked a challenge. She always won – always. And it was _tedious_, ever so boring and _tedious_. So she liked to fool herself that there was a possibility of her, an enchanting Princess, _losing. _She would have liked to have been able to lose. Just once._  
><em>

As she approached her chambers, she was stopped.

"Your majesty," the voice had curtsied to the floor, and seemed unquestionably _female_. "I am incredibly sorry for interrupting you so... imprudently. But I am aware you frequent the 15th Royal Rose Garden rather frequently... do you know of the Lord Faolin?"

Arya nodded, indicating the voice – the voice of an elfin _woman_, her slanted eyes adorned with delicate, fluttering eyelashes – to rise.

"I do, of course, know of him. You wish to find him? He is still in the garden now," she said flatly.

"Most gracious thanks, your majesty," she replied, her tone solid and firm, turning to leave. As she did, she stumbled – tripped – most _ungracefully_. She fell completely to the floor. A cracking sound could be heard as she fell.

Arya was astonished. She could not recall the last time someone had fallen so – and stood dumbstruck as the woman slowly struggled to pull herself up. It was so _alien_. It was so _horrific._ The woman, harrowingly aware of what a calamity she had caused by _falling_ in _an empty corridor_, it was simply embarrassing, simply unbecoming of an elfin lady – no, the woman was ashamed and tried to move away as quickly as she could.

"Hold on!" the princess demanded. The exclamation startled them both. Arya slowly moved towards the woman, her movement sleek. "I have not seen you before – may I request your name?" she asked, more tentatively.

"Malena... your majesty. Malena deBourgh."

"And what is your intention in seeing Lord Faolin?"

"He has asked me to... assist him this year with his roses. You have heard of his Camaïeux, your majesty, have you not? He plans to spend the next three years cultivating a new breed. He wanted... help." She spoke unsurely, tentatively, her eyes staring into the distance.

Arya nodded, satisfied with the answer. "I was simply curious... Tell me, why did you fall just there?"

An expression of pain broke on Malena's face, an expression of hardship, an expression of... loss. It was so very unfamiliar to Arya. She winced at seeing it, almost, recoiled – had she insulted Malena? She had not meant to insult Malena... she really had not meant any harm, she was just curious.

"I... I am blind your majesty," she said, her voice breaking.

"Blind? Oh..." she trailed off. She had never met a blind person before. It was odd. Strange. Curious.

"I must leave, your majesty, I am sorry – that was so _impertinent _of me, I must go – "

_Curioso._

She left before Arya could utter another word. And Arya... Arya was left only with a sense of dissatisfaction, a sense of... she couldn't really name the feeling, pin it down... She frowned. She was displeased, almost. She had never particularly liked herself, even then.

It was only four years later Arya found the word she was looking for.

_Shame._

* * *

><p>The servants did not know of it, the attendants did not know of it, but there was another dragon lurking within the spiralling depths of the Winter Palace. Beneath the hard, cold stone, beneath the frigid earth, beneath rotting dungeons and torture chambers and the sun itself, he slumbered. He answered to no one and no one answered to him. He was black – black as midnight. And his name was Shruiken: Shruiken, Dragon <em>of<em> Galbatorix. Supposedly.

"What ho'! Ambassador!"

The King was laid down on his throne room floor, along with fifteen various coloured inks, parchment, and a sharpened quill, ready to kill. Grinning.

"Oh, it is such a _wonderful_ surprise to see you here! Yes – I _can_ see you," he added, grinning. "I'm _magic!_ like that. Yes – I can see your face right in front of my eyes. And to think I was even considering getting lonely... very lonely," he smiled, wryly.

_What in the devil's name are you doing, Galbatorix? _Demanded the dragon.

"Consolidating plans! Preparing for court today! What _else_ do you think I do down here? You _know _I loathe this room, of course..." he trailed off, looking suddenly behind him, as if he expected a shadow to be looming there. There was nothing.

"... either way, I was just penning the first scene of my new play. Five act play – of course, one would expect nothing less! Wondrous thing, the theatre so... dramatic," he said, with a grimace.

_I should have expected nothing less, _the dragon grunted.

"So you should!" declared Galbatorix, bursting into laughter. "My dear ambassador – it'll be a real treat – oh, how I dearly wish you _could_ come and see! Semi-biographical play: fiction and fact – would it be a faction or a fict? I have no idea, but it _will_ be splendid."

He jumped to his feet suddenly, and began wringing his hands. "Behold! The stage is set, the whispers – do you hear those mutters?" He span around, suddenly, his arms outstretched wide. "Those are mutters of anticipation, those are mutters of _excitement_: the greatest playwright that has been known to history has _personally_ penned every thought, every utterance in this play, word by word, in ink."

_You've always been a terrible playwright. _

"But I will be! I will be, _my dear ambassador_ – this time. This is a story like none other – a _romance. _A princess and her valiant knight; he is most esteemed, most noble... but a _tragedy_. He falls in love with another, a girl, _Malena _– that is her name, _Malena_ – and the princess kills them all! Of course, the finale is partially fictitious –"

_That sounds completely overwrought and melodramatic._

This was in fact true. Galbatorix had written before - under varying stage names, of course, he could not go by his real name, he was a man of _the stage_. 'Galbatorix' itself was another mere stage name. _What mother would be so pretentious, so self-absorbed, to name their child Galbatorix of all things? _No, it was a mask, like everything else was, like everything had always been. Galbatorix could not even recall his given name any longer. This man, this man who went by the name of King Galbatorix, by The Great Maurizio, by Emmanuel Rosen, by Marty Oskarsson, by Benjamin Marlowe – to mention just a modest few pen names – he was enticed by the magic of the stage. And it was for this reason his scripts and writing was always rejected by the players companies' in Uru'baen: too melodramatic. Too overwrought. Too pretentious; too self-absorbed.

Galbatorix did not care. He would keep trying._  
><em>

"Pah, you _philistine_, it is all about the _execution. _It is all about how one chops and primes their words in place. One has to be... precise," he rocked back and forward on his heels, clapping his hands together as he did it. "You might wish to read it yourself before you judge."

_I can't read. I'm a dragon. Your kind never considered us worthy enough to be literate._

"You cannot read? Oh, travesty! Oh, woe! Ah well, you will appreciate it anyway –"

_What are you actually doing here Galbatorix? In all seriousness, what?_

Galbatorix's expression faltered. Just for a moment.

"You can hardly expect me to be serious. That's... well, that's Morzan's department."

_Morzan is dead._

"Oh, is he?" the King asked nonchalantly. "That's such a _shame_. Ah well – more Empire for me!" he giggled impishly. "It _is_ my Empire now, is it not? And I am its _absolute_ ruler. Me. Just _me._ No one else. No _helping hands. _This is – " he spun around, looking to the ceiling, a blank and lifeless incarnation of what the sky should be. "All. My. Fault. _All my fault. _My puppeteering, my handiwork, my _meddling._"

_I don't believe I ever questioned that. _

"This is _all me!_ He is dead – he is _dead_, and you know that. It was _I – _and only _I _– that brought her here. The Princess, I mean. The elfin one. The one in the play; she's still alive, you know. _I brought her here myself. _My world. My work – my _play_ rather, because that is all my work is. Playing."

_There is an elf here? _The dragon asked this midway through a yawn.

"Indeed there is! I brought her here _myself_, you see – "

_I didn't notice an elf._

"She's entangled in a spell – a complication – of her own at current, I believe – "

_But not your spell._

"I took her, forcibly – it was rather _clever_, actually, using nature – roots, even, against an _airy-faerie elf!_ – and I dragged her here against her will – "

_You haven't done a thing to her._

"No – complications, _ambassador_ – complications, it was – "

_I really have no idea why my race decided to trust imbeciles._

And then Galbatorix was left babbling to the lifeless, noiseless air. Completely alone. Again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I was going to delay this until I realised I'm going away all weekend. So... Arya in the past, eh? She _is_ rather OC, although there are some similarities. Pre-Varden Arya is meant to be hugely different from the Arya of now. I hope you guys can see past her sluttish tendencies too. She was never a particularly nice character at first - I always intended her to be a nasty piece of work.

Oh yeah, Galbatorix's stage names all belong to other characters at different points - except for Benjamin Marlowe, that was me laughing to myself by combining Ben Jonson and Christopher Marlowe together, two of Shakespeare's contemporaries: Uru'baen is based a lot on London at that time period. Marlowe especially is a total badass. But even that name was borrowed. We've already seen a 'Marty' in the last chapter, and he'll crop up again, as will most of the names mentioned. The link should be pretty obvious by the time we get to the end.

**Restrained Freedom**: Yay! :D. I spent a long, long time working on that chapter, fine-tuning the dialogue and things, so I'm glad you think that. Deranged is a very good way of putting it. Arya is... rather pyscho XD. She's reluctant, really, to be cared for, at all.

Please review - even if it's just to say you liked it. Or hated it. Anonymous reviews as well as fine. I just love to hear your thoughts. And thanks for reading, everyone!


	19. Unhappy Accidents

VI: Unhappy Accidents

* * *

><p><em>He was no noble, no sage, no magician with a box of tricks. And he existed – Cillian told me – he <em>existed. _Murtagh, the Pirate Lord, the man with black, ragged curls that tumbled to his waist, like the smoke of a wildfire, like the storm clouds rolling above; Murtagh, the Pirate Lord, the man with mad eyes the colour of lightning. We would find him._ _He would take us, or we swore on the lives of our poor, wretched souls, we would take his soul instead. We would drop it to the bottom of the ocean, the black, inky ocean, never to be found._

_It was then I realised that once the boat was finished this spring, I would never be returning to my home of fourteen years. _

Murtagh closed the book. End of chapter.

It certainly was an improvement on paying attention in court. The obsidian hall was vacuous and empty even when filled with all assortments of nobles. Their plush cushions and colourful day-wear could not detract from the bleak, the black, the dark. Spires rose above their elaborate crimson hats, where light trickled through, making the courtroom glitter like the night sky.

They muttered and murmured and announced and declared, reciting ancient poetry, repeating famous speeches, bringing in players and fire dancers and beautiful women and fools – _well, we have an excess of those already, _thought Murtagh. He was sat, with a mask of dire dissatisfaction attached to his face, glaring from the magnificent carved seat directly next to the King's throne.

These numerous amusements had never sated Murtagh. They always felt too humbled, too gratuitous, trembling in the presence of the Dark King's court – as the court was really the _only_ dark building the King liked. Their silliness and their stupidity were only amplified in such melodramatically ominous surroundings. Murtagh had often wondered if this was why the building was designed as such – it made the mad King look sane. Then again, during his outbursts and sudden applause and temperamental weather-like moods, it possibly pushed forward the opposite case. _Meh_. He returned to his book.

The King had almost encouraged his apathy, his boredom, his habit of flicking lazily through a book and paying little, if any attention. It was possibly part of the act – the King sat on his white, glorious throne, smiling manically; Murtagh sat on his black, threatening throne, glowering distastefully. _Good copper-Bad copper_. So Murtagh would sit on his arse during the few times he was dragged back to court, and generally not give a fuck. He was allowed to now; he hadn't before. He was the King's certified Right Hand, and could give the dismissive flick of the finger to all the trvial banalities of Uru'baen's _polite_ and _dignified_ and _noble_ courts. Bah. He only ever paid his due to the politics.

What _had_ always entertained him was the politics. Politics was a spectator sport in all forms of the word. The scandals, the rumours, the arguments, the pompous grandeur and mockery and debauchery of one side to the other – the blood spilt, the fights fought with mere words and whispers: that was alluring. It was alluring, enchanting, and thoroughly entertaining to _watch_. It was tribute to the power of words, the power of thought – or alternatively, a satirical mockery of it. But to _participate_, that was different. Murtagh had loved politics, he had loved making maverick witticisms about its absolute lack of morality or use in modern society, until he had actually became involved in it.

It became dangerous when your own neck was on the line.

For there was only one way to go in politics. Up. It was like running frantically up a collapsing staircase, with each step crashing behind, falling to the floor. It was an act of madness, a lunatic adrenaline rush, a terrifying, teeth-chattering thrill, a relentless pace whose combatants thrived on, hungered for, thirsted for ravenously.

Except Murtagh. It gave Murtagh a headache.

The choice was to go up, or to die. And since Murtagh refused to go up – _who would ever _choose_ to be a King?_ – he would be entrenched in a tangle with the reaper himself for eternity. The higher one was, the harder one fell. It was always a fall – never a stumble, or a trip, or a gentle landing, but a sheer _fall._ And Murtagh had been balancing precariously on top of a mountain.

He had not earned his position, either No thrills, no spills, no political dice. No adrenaline. No moving upwards. Just death threats. It was given by proxy – a red oversized lizard kind of proxy. A proxy he had definitely not asked for. _Don't even think of whining, Thorn. You're complaining to a fellow 'happy accident' here. _Really, Murtagh was content to watch the children bicker and fight among themselves. He did not need another dagger at his throat, his back, his arms, his legs, his front, his head. He did not need blackmail or minds games or poisoned food. He did not thrive as they did, on madness.

Did he?

He didn't even deign to answer that question. Politics was mad – utterly deluded, bad, and heart-shriekingly dangerous. Which made it mad, too, these days. Only madmen would choose to kill. And Murtagh had never particularly had much range in terms of choices.

He sighed. The entertainment had just finished. And the court was just about to start with the politics. The Imperial Bank's interest rates, specifically. _They'd be mad if they'd go down again – it'd be inflationary, especially when stocks are already short. The Empire's economy only ever goes up. _He should know. He had fixed and fiddled with the growth figures himself before to make them look preferable towards the King. Up was the only direction.

He frowned.

_I wonder how she's doing?_

It was the first time he had thought about the elf since he had left her alone. He expected she was absolutely fine. But 'expect', Murtagh had decided, was a particularly useless verb in regards to a particularly unpredictable elf.

Murtagh then did something he had never done before. In the midst of discussion, in the midst of the heated words, the sizzling words, the words he would usually listen for, he stood up.

Everyone stopped. Everyone gawked at him _in amazement._

He stood up, and walked out the door.

He could feel the fire and volcanic fury in the King's glower as it pierced his back. But Murtagh did not care particularly. He never really had, if he had to be honest. It was simply that for the first time, he had something better to do, and a reason to be 'rebellious'.

It was slightly amusing, though, watching the entirety of the court in silence as he did an action as simple as walk away. Awestruck, they were even. Horrified – or indeed, delighted, there was so little difference, these days. Or just simply speechless. They were just children who had just seen a magic trick.

* * *

><p>Malena was not a name she had made up. Malena was a real person.<p>

_Elf. Malena was an elf._

Malena existed. Or _had_ existed. Once.

Far, far away, in another world...

* * *

><p>It was a kind of rose. Malena was a kind of rose. It was the official rose of the Empire. It bloomed in late spring and remained in flower until the leaves began to crumple and fall. It was thirty one years old – young, rather. But it was still <em>beautiful.<em>

What was most remarkable was its colour – a rich, deep crimson, tipped with scarlet tones at the edges. The colour of freshly spilt blood.

* * *

><p>There was blood over the mirror. Blood over the mirror.<p>

_You useless piece of shit. _The voice screamed. The voice was screaming at her, screaming.

And Arya was screaming, Arya was screaming hard –

But no one could hear her because she was invisible and untouchable and not worthy of being heard even if they could hear her –

_Not worthy. Not worthy._

Arya was _not worthy. _Arya was _detestable._

_You never even cared about the Varden, did you Arya? Did you? It meant nothing to you – it meant _nothing_ to you. It was just a chance to escape. It was just another game. Since when did you care about politics? Since when? Since when Arya?_

She screamed again, throwing herself at the floor. Again. And again. And again.

_What was her name? What was her name? What was the name of the first person you murdered in _cold, wretched blood?

Arya did not answer.

She struggled upwards, towards the mirror – _where did it come from? Where did you come from? _There was no logical reason for it to be here, the exact same ornate, antique mirror that was in _the room_, the room that was locked eternally in shadows, the room she had been locked in. _The decorator was probably the same. That's all._

But logic meant nothing now. She was alone.

She staggered to the mirror. The voice had come from the mirror. That hateful, that cruel, that disgusting voice – _it was honest. It was very true. It was right. _She could not deny that.

Because Arya _hadn't_ ever cared about the Varden, had she? It had all been nothing to her, _nothing_, just an excuse, just a children's game –

_No! That is not true. I cared. I came here for a reason. I came here for the sake of the Varden. I exist because of the Varden, because the Varden is all that is me – _

She glared at the mirror. There was nothing there but herself, a splattering of her blood, and her gaunt, frightened reflection. _Elves don't get frightened._ But Arya was.

_There's only me here. There's only me here – no one else, no captor, no torturer, no master. Only me. I'm alone. I'm completely and utterly alone –_

_What if it's me?_

It could have been _all her fault._

Arya could have been the torturer. Arya could have been the captor. Arya did not sent herself here – she was certain – but the invisibility, the magic, the chaos, the hallucinations... it was her? She made it?

_I have no control. I have no choice. I did not choose to be here –_

But she _had_. She had taken hold of Morzan's son hand and _followed him. _

_He can see me. He can see me – I want him to see me, I want him to see – is it me? Have I ended like this – invisible... because... me... I..._

Arya looked into the mirror. She could only think of three words to describe that reflection, that monstrous, pale, shivering, sickly, poisonous, _beautiful_ reflection. The reflection of herself.

Three small words.

Nothing more. No, she did not deserve more. She was _here_ because she _deserved_ to be. It was all so simple! It was all so _logical!_ It all made complete and perfect _sense!_

_It is my fault. It is all my fault. I am worthless. I am despicable. _Yes, it all made complete sense.

Arya smiled, a crooked, timid smile.

_I will end this. I will end this in the only way I know how._

And that is how Arya began to look for the knife.

* * *

><p>Murtagh opened the door to his quarters.<p>

Everything had been ruined. Paper had been streamed and scattered across the floor, cut into thousands of tiny little pieces. The thick leathers and furs that lavished his complex had been slashed, ripped in two, stuffing swelling up from ruined settees and the chaise-longue _she_ had first laid on. Paintings had been jabbed repeatedly. Priceless vases had been shattered. There were droplets of blood on the floor.

_What... what on earth?_

It was a complete wreck. A complete and utter wreck.

_What has happened?_

It was as if a tornado had smashed into the room. A crying, weeping, desolate tornado.

"Malena? Malena, are you there?" He called.

There was no answer. He couldn't see her at all.

* * *

><p><em>I can end this. I can end all of this. I can end the war. I can end the fighting, the constant fighting, the constant hope. I can end this suffering.<em>

With a knife. Of course, that was how all good things ended.

_I can do something good. I can do something good for the first time in my despicable, my disgusting, worthless life before I end it all. An eye for an eye. A life for a life._

She was walking around in circles with a piece of metal jabbing at the air. No one could see her – she was in control. She was sure of that.

_I'll make the Varden proud. I'll make them proud – even if I never even cared for them. I'll do my duty this once... just this once. Just this once, I can do something glorious... the only glorious thing I'll ever do._

She took a breath, as she walked into the reception room.

_I can kill him. I can kill him. I'm going to kill him._

Blood was dripping down her arm.

_I'm going to kill Morzansson._

She could see him, standing behind the doorway, looking completely _murder-able._

_I'm going to kill Morzansson._

Repeating it sent a chill down her spine.

_I'm going to kill Morzansson! I'm going to kill Morzansson! _She laughed, loudly, singing it, croaking it, cackling like the mad, repulsive woman she truly was. _I'm going to kill you! I'm going to slash you into pieces, I'm going to cut you into smitherines, I'm going to murder. You._

She walked, slowly, stumbling, towards her. She was growing weak.

_You're going to die, Morzansson._

She was within yards of him now. Metres.

_You're going to die. Then I'm going to die. Because we're as bad as each other. You're despicable, you're lamentable, you're a monster, a killer, a traitor, a disgusting person. A revolting person. A person you can only hate – only ever hate, hate hate hate._

Inches. Centimetres. She could feel the tingle of his _poisonous_ breath.

_Dead dead dead dead. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you; I hate you, I hate you I hate you i hate you i hate you i hate you i hate you ihate you ihate you ihateyouihatyouihateyouihate–_

"I would not do that if I were you."

He held her wrist. And he was looking directly into her eyes. Directly.

Arya was shaking, Arya was shaking uncontrollably, Arya was shaking so much. So very, very much.

Slowly, he untangled each of her fingers, one by one, and removed the knife from her hand. He dropped it to the floor. It hit with a clang.

"I would," he said softly, almost not at all, almost... _worriedly._ His voice was shaking. "Not do that. If I were you." He looked into her eyes.

_He was looking into her eyes._

And then she began to cry.

They were not single tears, Arya cried. No, she _cried_, in the truest sense of the word. Big, fat, ugly tears poured down her face, and she shrieked aloud, bawling, her face reddening like a Malena Rose. She might as well have been a baby. It was the first time she had ever cried. She stood there, crying, with a man nervously holding her wrist. The mask, the cold, unfeeling, unemotional mask on her face, broke into a thousand pieces – broke – and she was crying. Properly. Truly.

She was crying in front of the worst man in the world. It would have been kinder of him to take that very knife and stab her in the chest with it. No, he had chosen to be cruel. He had forced her to _live_.

"I... you... blood..." she whimpered, tears still rolling down. She was growing... faint. Tears. Blood. Too much blood.

"Oh, you stupid, stupid_, stupid_ girl..." He held her then, cradling her in his arms. He muttered a healing spell; her gashes suddenly rejuvenated, as if by magic.

_It was by magic, you stupid girl_, she thought.

"I... sorry... _fuck._"

Murtagh raised his eyebrows. He wasn't angry. He was just... sighing, was it with relief? Or exhaustion? Her face was still flooding with tears, taking huge, gaping breaths of air. _Like she'd been born for the first time._

Then something happened.

She hadn't meant it to happen.

It had started innocently enough. She threw her head into his shoulder, bawling still. Her fingers were grabbing onto him, grabbing onto his shirt, not wanting to let go, never wanting to let go... then his shoulders, his head, his hair, twisting... and then they were under his shirt, they moved beneath each button, skin brushing against skin...

_You stupid, stupid girl, _she thought. She could almost laugh. Or maybe it was the magic, the magic that had made so _stupid_.

She was now kissing him, kissing him suddenly, kissing him violently, desperately... she hadn't meant it to happen, she didn't, it just happened, it just did... and _he_ was kissing her back, kissing her, his fingertips, wandering fingertips, running all over her... and they had moved, moved into an unfamiliar room...

They _fucked._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Whoaaah Nellie. This'll be interesting. Note the language - they did not 'make love' (I never liked the term anyway, since sex doesn't make love; the two don't have that much to do with each other). They aren't in love. It was more 'in the heat of the moment'. I'm thinking When Harry Met Sally here, except more angsty. Thoughts, guys - I'm away for a couple of days, so you won't get an update for a while.

**Restrained Freedom: **I'm both saddened and baffled by this review. I think I did overcook it, and didn't make a good few things clear_. _So let's sort that. If anyone's the trash, it's Arya. The elves are portrayed as 'trash' in stories - and Arya's whole life in Uru'baen has been a fairy-tale, but they're not exactly trash, even if they're really 'free-love'. I'm not trashing on the fans - I don't write for fans, I write because I love to write, and I have a story to tell. I never intended to hurt fans at all. I think I should probably make clear; I'm technically an 'anti'. I don't like the Inheritance Cycle - I see it as a huge waste of potential, with many characters that are flat who could have been much better (Eragon, Arya, and Galbatorix spring to mind), which is actually why I'm writing this. I want to give them the breath of life they never got in the series, and I think they have stories to tell. So to some extent, yes, I'm trashing the elves - as I'm slightly mocking the whole fiction, although I don't intend to be particularly unkind to them. I never intended Arya to be a partivcularly nice character: the irony is that for someone so self-hating, she has a lot of reason to hate herself. I don't think there's any rampant casual sex really in the story apart from that. But just in case you don't like it and I decide to include it last minute, you might want to be wary. I don't want to discourage you from reading - on the contrary. Just a warning for you.

**Eminem Bitches:** A set of pointed ears, and a nickel.


	20. Roses Are Red

VII: Roses are Red

"_My love is like a red, red rose" - Robert Burns_

* * *

><p>They had fucked.<p>

He could have said no, of course. He could have restrained himself. He was on thin ice, on risky ground, as he always was – and now he was with an _elf_. He could have told the elf, the elf that flung herself at him, grabbed onto him, kissing and crying, kissing and crying... what could he have told her?

Because Murtagh was fed up of restraining himself. Because he was tired – tired of everything. And because in all honesty, Murtagh didn't _want_ to say no.

So that was that. They had fucked.

The sex was terrible, of course. Murtagh could count the number of sexual experiences he'd had on one hand; they had all been terrible. This was no exception. Sort of. He didn't really know what to make of it, thinking about it... thinking about it, it was clumsy. And awkward. And stupid and angry and desperate and... confusing. It was a swirling tornado – a crying, weeping, desolate tornado, struck by lightning, stirring in the rain, accompanied by the howls of lost spirits, ghosts.

It was slightly insane. As was life.

They had woken in his bed, _the_ bed, the bed they'd kicked the covers and the pillows off in frantic, mechanical fucking. They had woken. Separate. Completely naked. They were not touching. They were nowhere near each other at all.

"This never happened," he had said to her.

So it hadn't.

"Yield."

Mornings ticked away like clockwork for Murtagh. At least, the mornings which he did not have to attend court. He was to wake at dawn. He was to organise his meetings for the day. He was then to spar for half an hour. Which he was doing now.

"Yield."

Murtagh had won. Again. Not just that – Murtagh had won effortlessly, spinning like a whirlwind, parrying and twisting his sword, slashing with ruthless ease, stroke by stroke, his footwork flawless. He had done all this whilst thinking about how he got laid last night.

"Yield. Your upward parry was weak there."

Sparring had once been a ruthless exchange of blows; the feigning, the fooling, the quick-stepping and clever footwork – not the brutal power and the breathtaking speed – were what was once necessary to succeed. Without absolute focus, it was futile. It had once been dangerous, risky, _exciting_ – a kind of excitement he could _afford_ – but not now. Not since Thorn. Sparring was now effortless. Sparring was now easy. Galbatorix, on acquisition, had given him unearthly magical ability, unearthly speed and power... it was tantalising, the thought, but in reality, it was repetitive and somewhat banal.

"Yield."

Murtagh looked upwards at his opponent – a clever, quick, well-to-do Captain that was unfortunate enough to be picked to pair up with the Empire's finest swordsman, for a private sparring session. Usually it was over a clash of fellow swords and a riveting match that Murtagh would only ever be treated as an equal, as a partner, as a _friend_. It was how he had shared bitter laughs and knowing grimaces before. But that was then and this was now and... _complications._ How could this Captain, now, languishing behind, near collapse in exhaustion, ever see the flawless movements of the opposition, a Rider no less, as _equal?_

_This is absolutely pointless._

The two placed themselves in position again, in the empty, dust-coated courtyard, the shadows of hollowed arches cast across them. It was tucked away from the hustle and bustle and constant movement of the palace; the only company was the moss crawling along the floor, and the stink of rotting weeds between the cracks. Every clash, every clang, every stuttering footstep seemed to interrupt the deadness... the stillness, the peculiar tranquillity.

"Sire," called an unfamiliar voice.

A servant walked gravely from the shade. That she was, like every other servant, slave, or lord that haunted the Palace, strictly forbidden from interrupting this session, did not deter her. She looked only at Murtagh. To him alone, she curtsied, gracefully, to the floor. The other man did not exist, had not existed, and would not ever exist. She spoke seven dreaded words, words Murtagh had been expecting since leaving court:

"The King wishes to see you immediately."

* * *

><p>It was late morning when Arya awoke again, after lapsing into slumber, for the second time that day. Completely naked. Except this time she was alone.<p>

No explanations. No goodbyes.

_It never happened. _But it didn't stop her thinking about it mindlessly, endlessly, incessantly. It didn't stop her loathing it all.

She grabbed her white dress – now filthy, now reeking of sweat, now covered in grime and black and stains. It was thrown to the floor, lost and forlorn, once tangled with another's various articles of clothing in a bubbling, stirring melting pot of confusion. The other pieces had been carefully, clinically removed – only her dress, her _filthy_ dress, was left, crumpled. It didn't matter. Arya had always been filthy anyway. _Strumpet._ She threw it on.

She wandered into the reception room. _I'm still here. I'm still in Uru'baen. Still in Morzansson's clutches. _Everything broken, bloodied, and ruined had been removed. It was pristine again – expect, as if it had been placed hurriedly, without warning, a pile of books. There was a note on top. She withheld the temptation to set it alight. Arya read the first line.

"On duty. Will not be back for a week. Sorry."

The handwriting was squashed into small, compact letters, but they shook tightly, blotched over the page, smudged, like irritated children upset at being confined to such tiny, rigid words. Arya read the rest. It was mainly, interestingly, about meals – what food she could choose, when she could choose it, that it could be delivered to her room or she could visit the city if she wished to eat there. There was some mention of clean clothes as an afterthought. Finally, the pile of books was explained.

"Thought you'd be bored. Map of Uru'baen enclosed. Left some books for you – if you want. You don't have to read them though. I hope you'll be okay."

Then a signature – which was simply a name printed neatly. _Murtagh._ No excess decorations or trimmings. Just a name. Which in Uru'baen, was enough to live on.

So he'd gone. He didn't even say goodbye. The bastard. Or a son of a bastard. Or a son of a son of a bastard. Arya cared little for semantics – he was still a bastard. For leaving her a note; he had left her a _dead_ thing. A lifeless, emotionless, soulless thing – notes, hurriedly scribbled, thoughtless, the sort of irritating, scratchy, jaw-tightening specific _detail_ that Arya the Ambassador had surrounded herself with.

Except that woman was now dead too.

_I'm Malena now. _Not Arya. _Malena_. Arya might as well have been dead.

And Malena was somewhat upset at a certain bastard-who-wasn't. That was it. She was going to find his Eldunari stash. She had been planning on searching for his Eldunari stash all along, of course. It was not a half-baked, hastily-implemented, stupid, and illogical plan of action that she had just came up with because she'd been unable to stab him in the first place.

_Since when was I ever that spiteful?_

But Arya – Malena – was mad, which made all the difference. At least, she was supposed to be. _I wonder if this is what Galbatorix feels like? _She ignored that particular thought. She was going to look for a stash of Eldunari, return them to an organisation that she didn't particularly care about to further a war that she didn't particularly care about. Anymore. _Did I ever care?_

She ignored that thought too.

Dashing into the study, she began to prise books from the floor to ceiling shelves that loomed and lurched in their shadowy confines. She ripped them from the walls and hurled them to the floor, split open, pages aflutter and crumpled. Where are the magic books? Where was 'E' for Eldunari? There were none. Politics, Economics, Literature, Ancient History, Physics, Military theory, Anatomy – _even animal anatomy – _but no _magic. 'A Question of Being'? 'The Will to Power'? 'The Critique of Pure Reason'? _Arya threw them aside. It astounded her simply that there existed someone who read philosophy for its own sake; why would one read for any reason but to cite works simply to create the illusion of being intellectual and distinguished? It baffled her. And it was the precise reason why she never read it. She grabbed the next book. '_The Importance of Being Ernest'? _She nearly snorted in disgust.

Classic literature irritated her. It was nearly always written by humans. Her people put little stock into old folk tales, grand and glorious adventures, reaching enchanted seas and shorelines and spinning worlds traced in ink. In those stories, Elves were always the temptation, the swindlers, the _whores_.

_The stories aren't particularly inaccurate, though, aren't they?_

She bit her lip. Hard. _I'm supposed to be looking for Eldunari. Supposedly. Maybe. (Or maybe not). _And there were none.

Bolting through each room, she began to open wardrobe doors and empty drawers and prise open locked chests. She checked for hidden doors, traps, for obstacles and for every single, precise _logical – Arya is the logical one – _detail she could search for.

Nothing. No magic. No tricks. Everything was as it seemed.

She threw herself down onto a spare, scarlet-leather sofa, coated with luxurious furs that she might have brazenly worn in the presence of her mother to make a point. A sharp, and deadly point, that poked uncomfortably into her back now. _This is going to be far, far more difficult than you had hoped. _Rather optimistically hoped, in fact. _This is going to take months. Possibly years._ She rolled off the sofa then, with a charming grunt.

_I'm rather stupid, aren't I? _

Arya/Malena/the elf pulled herself upwards, softly chuckling. Edging round the literary debris, she waltzed into the study. Books lay flattened and squashed, their pages wrinkled and smudged, curling corners in defeat, worn, wearing, colourless colours crying for care. She began to place them away, slowly. She picked up a dictionary.

China fragments slid out between the slippery pages, crashing onto her naked toes. She let out a yelp.

_Blood? Again?_ She groaned. Her left foot now had a large gash colouring the white, silken skin into blooming purple and oranges. She ignored it and picked up the china fragments. They were familiar... hazily so, like a buried memory... it could have been part of a china teacup. _Like the one Morzansson had forced down my throat on the first night. _Except it did not smell of tea... it looked like coffee, but it stunk of _liquor._

She glanced in the dictionary. The cup had been pressed into the pages hurriedly; it was a messy man's attempt to clean. She was somewhat surprised – Morzansson seemed to be the sort she believed was frugal with his words, precise in his gestures, and ruthless in his actions. The page that they had been clumped in was wet, smudged, ripped and battered. A solitary leather bookmark had been attached long ago. There were only two definitions she could discern clearly:

**rose** (I)  
>Noun<br>1. a prickly bush or shrub that typically bears red, pink, yellow, or white fragrant flowers, native to western temperate regions and widely grown as an ornamental.  
>2. [<em>mass noun<em>] a warm pink or light crimson colour  
>3. a stylized representation of a rose in heraldry or decoration, typically with five petals (especially as an archaic emblem of the Clans)<p>

**rose** (II)  
>Past of RISE<p>

These were circled clearly three times, in red ink. Or at least, it looked like ink. She hoped it was ink.

She touched it.

As she did, angry circles and symbols began to float into the page, each etched and slashed into the surface with an enraged quill, scrawled horrifically, ripped into parchment, red and raw and bleeding, seeping into the grain of the page and grasping at the orderly black print, ripping across them, snarling in their jagged, rough, wretched forms, maddened – and swirling. They began to sparkle, shimmer, dance, sprang upwards like the flames of a blazing forest. The world around her was submerged in its smoke; it choked her. It was just her... and the flames. And the _magic. _Not regulated by words, by restrictions, by the tongues of ancients... but _magic_. It burned – burned bright, and burned _red._

_The colours of an autumn day._

Arya's eyes leapt open, lids quivering. Something... something compelled her then, an attraction, a desire, a _lust –_ a need, a feral, desperate need that rumbled from the blackest pit inside of her... Something she could never ever, ever, _ever_ understand.

"_Master." _

She whispered the word aloud, and it glittered like gold dust. She cupped her hands, shaking, sweating, tentative hands and placed them to the fire.

It burned her like a moth to a flame.

Images and sounds, images and sounds, flooded her mind – _no, burned it_ – burned Malena and Arya and the elf and the ambassador and the princess' mind, heart, soul, seized it in flames and ravaged it in blazing, sweltering heat like the blazes, the thundering blazes of hell, hell itself. Arya did not believe in hell. But here it was _laughing_ at her_._ She could feel blood. She could feel anguish. She could hear the whimpering cries of a thousand other voices, stuck in the dark and the cold, in a black ship, on the black waves, swaying, swaying on those crashing and cruel waves that washed her and a thousand others away to a magical world, a world so, so far from home...

She snapped the book shut.

The images disappeared, the sounds disappeared, the thousand lost songs of a thousand lost souls stopped.

Like their tongues had been sliced off. Sold to the butcher for tuppence.

She was in Murtagh's study now. Morzansson's study. There were books everywhere, that she had thrown off the shelves, and she had looked in a dictionary which was now shut in her hands. There was no magic. She put the dictionary away. She put everything away. She didn't want to look for Eldunari anymore. She had a sinking feeling that she wouldn't find them if she did, that they might not exist, but she didn't want to look to find out.

She could still see symbols dancing when she shut her eyes. Pentacles, specifically. Five points. Each one of them seemed to be jabbing into her eyes as they faded.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Not as exciting as last chapter, but eh. Plot begins to kick off from now on, I promise. Seriously, when I eventually rewrite this to clean it all up, I swear I am going to delete the first ten chapters or so. The plot's all over the place. I've got to find a better way of introducing characters.

**Witchy Pixie**: I'm glad you love it :). And psh, your scribbles are awesome. I can't do anything non-serious for my life XD. It's all angst and death and gloom - oh and insanity ;D

**Eminem Bitches**: Agreed about sex being overrated. As for whether they'll fall in love... you'll have to wait and see :P

**Squidcats**: I was looking forward to this review :D. Galbatorix is my favourite character so far too. He's so much fun to write, and luckily a lot of this fic revolves around him and his issues. I'm glad you liked the Roran chapter - I thought loads of people would be put off simply because it's _Roran_; I don't particularly like him in the IC myself. Eragon is really dark at the moment, I actually wished I written him lighter now, but I'll change things when I eventually redraft this all. But it's more of the point he's at, more of a phase, I guess. I'll work on it all.

**Restrained Freedom:** Anything good about the elves? Ack. That's something I _do_ need to work on. I always planned on their existence being a bit dystopian. There's a lot of original history to the elves I've thrown in about the elves - they're definitely not the worst race in this fic, I think. That would definitely be humans, albeit a specific number and grouping of them.

Reviews, I loves them :D. Thanks for reading!


	21. Thrown Overboard

VIII: Thrown Overboard

* * *

><p>It was raining. It was raining like the oceans had overflowed into the sky and burst through the seams, each drip and drop hammering down; they were daggers. No one else was there. The dirt and grime had spilled over, with swathes of mud and slurry pouring through the streets. Water, thick dribbles of water, toppled off every surface, every rooftop, every brim of a hat or edge of a cape.<p>

_Eragon. _

A young man could be seen striding away from a small fishing village south of Dras-Leona, shivering beneath tightly wrapped bat-like cloak, dripping. He was heading towards a large, blue reptile hidden rather badly among a patch of shrubbery.

_Eragon. This is madness._

The young rider did not reply. He mounted the dragon.

_Eragon –_

_This village needs to be burned. I was almost spotted.__  
><em>

_Eragon, it is raining. I _can't_ burn it. I can't burn it like I did the last one._

The pair ascended. There was not a word uttered beneath the pounding of the endless rain.

_Eragon – _

_Shut up! Shut up Shut up Shut up! _The rider screamed, internally. His hands had clumped into fists and they were shaking, _shaking_ – was it in anger? Or was it the rain, the cold, cold rain?

They flew under the shadows of swirling clouds and the beating of the rain in silence, towards their next potential target. It was dangerous to fly in a storm, flying into the pounding winds, howling, and the thunder. They did so regardless. It was a risk – a stupid risk – they needed to take.

_I want to go home, Eragon._

_You have no home, _he snapped. He pulled at his sopping wet tangles of hair in frustration, and let out a strangled cry._ This is... I just... I'm sorry Saphira. I'm so, so sorry. I just... just want to do something _right _for once. Be a hero –_

_You're already a hero –_

_No I'm not. I'm nothing_, nothing_, without you. And you know that._

_I don't know what you're talking about, _she mumbled, withholding a long, drowsy sigh. She'd heard this argument before. Too many times._ You are really appreciated, Eragon. Don't be stupid.  
><em>

_Well, I'm goddamn bloody tired of being stupid. _

She did not respond.

_Look. I'm just a kid, I'm just a pawn – I _know_ that. People have told me so many times. And I'm okay with that. I'm okay with knowing nothing. I'm okay with doing what I'm told – following orders. Just – _

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

_Just, for once – just this once, _he thought._ I want to do something. For myself._

_You already do something. For the Varden –_

But she stopped. Maybe she knew it was useless. Maybe she knew that Eragon didn't care any more.

Because he didn't. He never had - not truly. He was always the tool. He was always the pawn, the object, the weapon. He was not permitted to have _feelings. _He was not allowed to be _human. _Because he wasn't even human any more, wasn't he? He could have laughed – but he would have sounded like a maniac, a madman, laughing in the rain. Maybe long, long ago, he might have agreed... maybe long, long ago, he might have fought for the Varden with joy, if they'd let him have a choice...

Forks of lightning glistened.

Thunder struck again, louder, fiercer, crueller.

But all he fought with now was apathy. And longing. And sadness. He missed Arya – no, he didn't miss her. He _never_ missed her – did he? Was that true? Had he really felt _nothing_? Had he spent all this time...

He didn't know. He didn't know what he felt any more. About anything. About Arya. About this. But especially about wars. He didn't know what he thought about them.

Saphira had always thought it was a 'phase' he needed to grow out of – being unsure. Questioning things. That's what everyone had always thought. About everything he did. He'd tried to prove them wrong. He'd tried – he'd _tried_ so hard. But it was never the effort, the method, which was important in war. It was always about the final result. The means to an ends.

Eragon hated being mean. Or ending things.

He was _useless_ at it.

_I don't know. I don't know, Saphira – I don't– _She could feel his shoulders hunching, his body curling up, wanting to roll itself into a lullaby and drift away. He was about to cry.

There was a silence. The rain poured down.

_I h-hate the rain. It reminds me of home._

Lightning struck.

It crashed into the boy with ruthless force, raging through every fibre of screaming nerves, glistening – glistening like it was _mad_.

It missed the dragon. Her hardened scales were made for sailing through lightning storms.

_Eragon –_

He slipped off her like a dead weight, his body falling through the sky, speeding through the clouds. He'd forgotten to do up the straps when he took off.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: He's a bit emo, isn't he? XD. I always internally imagined Eragon as an angsty teenager Scott Pilgrim - he doesn't come off it much here, does he? Eragon's... a little bitter. Also, have any of you heard of Robotaki? 'Tis awesome. I swear on ff just listens to mainstream teenagery rock. Oh, and expect updates to occur less often. School starts next week. I might not even update in weeks or so, I expect I'll be _that_ busy. /life is meh.


	22. Leaves of Honey

IX: Leaves of Honey

_"Poor worm, thou art infected!_  
><em> This visitation shows it."<em>

_- Prospero, Act III Sc I, The Tempest  
><em>

* * *

><p>It would be dubbed the 'Eldunari Incident'. <em>It never happened.<em> She tried to remind herself of this, pinching her wrists and biting her lip so hard that it bled. But it would not fade from memory.

For the rest of the week, Arya did nothing.

She refused to go out.

She refused to explore.

She refused to touch or talk or interact with anyone.

And she didn't read books.

She ate all the meals delivered to her though. Morzansson had insisted that she should eat properly, and she should probably oblige – _probably. _But that was all she did.

She did not sleep in the bed. She slept in chaise-longue instead. It was warmer.

In all honesty, she was rather scared to do anything else. So she waited, biding her time, doing little, living little. It reminded her of living in Ellesmera, in fact. A fact that so enraged her that she wanted to rip the reception room to pieces, to tatters and shreds, as she had before. But the thought was so exhausting, so rigorous, that she would snap into tears as soon as she started, and collapse on the floor.

It was nice being able to cry now.

Arya was not a creature made for waiting. She realised that. She understood that, now, more clearly and closely as a helpless, shivering wreck than she did before, that she hated, she _hated_ waiting – because it was all she had done, waiting and hating, waiting and hating, _waiting and hating_ for the past two weeks. It was the only reason she had slept with others. It was the only reason she had joined the Varden_._ That was _doing something. _That was _living_ life_. _

Or, at least, what a fairytale Princess thought constituted of living. She hungered for it, like a starving prisoner, rattling the bars and gnawing them, grasping at stands and scraps, morsels of the bloodied, rotting meat that she thought was life. Because she had been wrong. Running wasn't living. Hiding wasn't living. It was being afraid of living. Or at least... she _thought_ that was the answer.

Arya didn't know if there were any confirmed facts or answers anymore.

She sighed, often, and heavily, for all of those seven days, losing herself in the thrum, the hum, the regular beat of cycles of thought. They started as drifting breezes, zephyrs, picking up into blustering winds, growing wilder, faster and harsher, howling, until they were whirlwinds, thrashing twisters, throwing her around in frenzied circles, twirling and twirling and twirling...

It was a relief when Morzansson returned.

Oh, who _was_ she kidding?

"Ah. Hello."

He had stumbled into quarters, slamming open the door, hands digging into his creased and crumpled and strained temples, breathing exhaustively, loudly, flinging his leather long coat into the wall, mumbling something about _fuck i need a drink fuck i need a drink _before his stoop seized upwards, his body straight as a plank – he'd remembered she was there.

Arya cocked her head to the side. She said nothing. She wondered if something was wrong, and waited for him to continue.

He let out a long, loose, exasperated sigh...

"I have _work_ to do."

The tone was unquestionably harsh. He went into his study, the door closing behind him with a click. Had she just said something wrong? She didn't know.

He came out a mere five minutes later, leaning casually on the wooden doorframe, his arms draping over each other, a black eyebrow firmly raised.

"You haven't done anything all week, haven't you?"

"... No," she said quietly, gazing directly at him. There was no point lying.

"Then..." he strode towards her calmly. "You're going to do something now. We are. I'm showing you around Uru'baen. Now." He said these words slowly and clearly.

Arya looked into his determined gaze. She didn't respond.

He then grabbed her hand and pulled her upwards with one swoop, and suddenly she was on her feet, suddenly she was up and awake without meaning to. Arya ripped her own hand away from his, slapping it away.

"Is... is there anything wrong?" he asked.

"No," she said bluntly. "I mean, that would be very nice, thank you."

No response.

She reached out to his hand again. Her soft, white hand grabbed hold of his sunny brown wrist, covered in black bristly hairs that tickled her palms. His look was still questioning.

"I did... I ate all of my meals," she added, tentatively.

He did something unexpected then. He smiled.

The pair ran out of the quarters, at blundering speed. They span around the corridors, up and down staircases, with the occasional snatch, a glimpse, a delicious morsel of the endless view outside, of the great, never-ending city which was theirs. Whirling on the edge of the world, they dodged and dashed past servants and knights and lords and bewildered looks at the rush of fresh wind and the traces of two soaring ghosts...

They came out of a hidden passageway right next to a near-empty plaza, stone slabs broken and cracked and warm by the treading of the early morning markets, now bathed in the warm wash of the evening sun. Pottery littered the square on vast mucky-white sheets, by which half-empty stands covered in half-completed works stood. Thick and swirling paintings of various sizes and frames were propped against them with muttering and grumbling artisans fretting over their placement for the daily dusk rush.

Murtagh collapsed onto the floor, against a grubby brick wall, audibly panting, his chest heaving in an out. Arya rose an eyebrow, stifling a chuckle.

"Oh, shut up." He elbowed her in the knee, rolling his eyes. "I ain't no _elf_."

Her smirk turned to a solemn frown.

He nearly slapped himself.

"Gah, sorry. Forgot," he mumbled, pulling himself up. "Oh. Before you ask, I _did _prepare..." He pulled out a small crystal from beneath his shirt, threaded on a rough string. "Casted an invisibility charm on it... not as potent as what's happening to you and it won't last more than a few hours. But it works."

She shuffled tentatively closer, like a particularly thin, white, pointy-eared magpie, watching the object glint and shimmer as it caught a few measly rays of light, before he hastily tucked it away again.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Oh, the crystal? Ah," he smiled, tapping his nose. "The secret to my power."

She looked at him quizzically.

"Are you really Murtagh Morzansson?"

Her tone was completely serious.

Morzansson burst into laughter.

"Yes. Yes I'm afraid am," he said, smiling wearily. "Unfortunately, I am."

She looked unconvinced.

"Look – I'll introduce you properly to Thorn when we get home – although he's probably asleep now after today's long haul – if you'd like that, that is," he said, grabbing her by the arm, tugging her along.

They began to wander through the city, mostly in silence, with Morzansson occasionally quipping with some offhand cynical remark about Uru'baen and how it smells absolutely appalling and how the streets are secretly swarming with hordes of river rats and how the nobles make better pickpockets than the peasants – _he's called the taxman, and he stalks your footsteps at the dead of night_. They walked into the outer city, further away from the slithering river itself, where the stink of bodies and naked sweat lingered, and the howls and hollering of packed, greasy cattlemarkets seemed to echo still. Rows of thatched terraced houses stood stiffly as they walked, in differing colour and styles with black wood and brown wood and white wood with peeling paint, scruffy paint, scratched paint, porches and balconies – or not – a strange, dilapidated combination of fragments of a painting. Lines of damp washing fluttered across the streets like colourless banners.

They passed a crooked clocktower, ornate hands rusting, jutting outwards at awkward, crooked angles. It stroke – suddenly – a large, brassy 'twang'. She almost shrieked in shock. It happened again. And again. Nine times. An assortment of smaller counterparts on an abandoned merchant's stall mimicked furiously with each explosive strike, like a cacophony of maddened birds.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Where? I have absolutely no idea," he chuckled softly.

"Aren't _you_ supposed to be guiding me?"

"Maybe," he said, grinning, before noticing her earnest stare. She was so frank_. _It was really refreshing. "Okay, fine. I might know the Winter Palace like the back of my hand, but Uru'baen... is huge. I barely know the Artisan district – let alone the _slums_."

"We're not _already _in the slums?" she asked, bewildered. Had she not seen peeling paint and grubby plaster and grumbling peasants?

Morzansson shot her a look. "You've never been to a human city before, have you?"

"I have, I have – I just..." she trailed off. She had never really seen a human city – never fully, never in all its brightness and tirades and laughter. She had passed through them, gone on official business, but never _seen_. Never _explored_. "Not properly."

"What do you think?"

It was disorganised, it was dilapidated, it was disgustingly messy and ugly. It tried not to be – it tried to put on a stiff, mannerly appearance, appear prim and proper – but it couldn't quite manage it. It was too interesting for that. It was... strange. Very distinctly human – a certain kind of human. She strangely liked it.

She liked how _silly_ it was, how _dirty_ it was, how _odd._ She liked how simply people 'got on with it' – a phrase she had heard – and 'didn't piss about'. They lived, in their own ways. It was a rather lonely city – no one talked to strangers. Especially invisible elves. But then again, she might as well have been another face in a crowd. It didn't particularly matter anymore.

She had let herself smile – just snippets of it, just briefly – at the chaos of it all, for the first time in weeks. Here she wasn't a princess, or an elf, or an ambassador, or a warrior. She wasn't part of the Varden anymore. She wasn't part of the Empire either. She was just a girl, and a stranger. It was enough for a smile.

It was wonderful.

"You haven't seen the Theatre yet," he said, sharing her beaming smile. When she realised she was smiling, her face fell sharply.

"You keep mentioning that. Why?"

"It's one of a kind. Never been there myself, however. It's something that only Uru'baen has – well, the sort of thing visitors tend to like. No one else in the world has a Theatre, I guess."

"The elves do," she said quietly.

"Ah."

"Don't waste your precious breath. It was mostly awful avant-garde, pretentious 'independent experiments'. It was ridiculously boring. All about reclaiming nature and reclaiming the past and awakening ones 'truer' spirit. Always set in the glory days, always fantasising about how truly _glorious_ they were. All stupidity and no... soul. No... adventure. No passion. My mother made me sit through their performances an unquestionable number of times, as _education_ – "

She cut herself off.

"Why am I telling you this?"

"I don't know."

The sun was beginning to sink, swelling red and enormous. They turned back on themselves, mostly in silence. It was less comfortable, that silence, more irritating, unsure, shuffling in oversized boots. It dug between both of them, jabbed into their sides and squeezed them. She shot glares at him when he wasn't looking. He didn't return to them. As they approached the Palace, guards bowed in his presence, maids curtsied to the floor, soldiers stopped sniggering and stared. Was it in reverence, was it in fear, or was it in the presence of an _alien_ that might have once chuckled among them only a year ago?

They eventually reached Murtagh's quarters as twilight clouded over the world.

She sat down, and glared.

"Murtagh, tell me. Why did you show me Uru'baen?"

He didn't answer.

"_Why?"_

"Well, it's going to be ash and rubble in a few months, isn't it?" he snapped, suddenly.

She was taken aback.

"I was stating a fact," he said.

"It's not a fact," she said.

He said nothing in reply. His face was suddenly completely stoic. Emotionless. Blank. Cold. Porcelain Statue. A Mask. _Elf-like._ It made her blood boil.

"Oh please! Someone help you – have you honestly no _hope_? No _belief_ in a future?"

"You know how it is going to end."

"No I don't! I don't –" She looked at him. "Don't tell me you expect to die? Murtagh?"

She stumbled over his name. She was about to say 'Morzansson'.

He responded with only a cold, hard, look of steel.

"You could have ran away." He said, finally. "You could have ran away then, never had seen me again. You didn't have to come back. I would have let you."

A pause.

"Do you know the current state of the Varden campaign?" He asked, calmly. "It's in tatters. The Northern front have completely refused to further their position. It's a stalemate. The elves aren't moving and won't move. Orders from above. Apparently someone important is _missing_. The southern campaign, too. Apparently they've sent Eragon out to look for _her_."

She did not reply.

"Malena. Look at me. Just look at me."

He moved closer to her, his face eyes now wide – in despair. They were tired eyes, his, worn and sunken underneath the weight of a thousand seas. And he – he was the shipwreck, submerged under the swirling, smashing, sparkling blue waves, sinking, drifting, sinking and drifting away...

"I could _win_ this war."

His tone was not that of glory, but horror. Because there were no winners in war. Only losers and those who happen to be left over.

They stood in silence, before he turned away without a sound uttered, as if to retire for the night.

* * *

><p>Something fluttered. Maybe it was sore, tangled bedsheets or wisps of curling hair, or the grasp of a soft hand, clutching...<p>

Murtagh awoke. Staggering out of bed, he tore the curtains open – black. It was still night. The sky was dreary black, blank, lifeless. He turned around.

The door had been pushed ajar, noiselessly. A candle seemed to be floating in the air, the light brushing the air softly. And holding it was the disturbance that had woken him from his sleep. Sleep he _needed._

It was the elf. And she looked terrified.

As if she'd been touched by the kisses of ghosts.

As if she had been stalked by the shadows, slinking around her ankles, teething away, slowly, silently.

As if she was drowning in the night.

"You can't sleep?"

She shook her head four times in succession, rapidly. It was a very, very unhappy shake of the head.

"Okay then," he said, quietly. He was afraid that anything louder that a butterfly's whispers would cause her to float away.

They moved into the reception room. Murtagh noticed the pile of blankets still there, in a messy heap on the floor, which he had tossed there around this time just over a week ago

"You _sleep_ here?" he asked, incredulously. Why she didn't sleep on the bed was beyond him – it was far more comfortable... _elves_, he thought, before correcting himself mentally. She was a very strange elf. She was a very strange _person._

They sat in silence for a while.

Murtagh suggested they should do something to pass the time. She did not reply, just softly drummed her fingers, her skeletal, witch-like fingers, on her lap.

Five minutes passed. Her fingers were still drumming.

"Do you..." he began, "Do you..." he stopped. It was as if she'd regressed to the first evening again. He took a breath, and asked her: "Tell me about yourself."

She looked up from her lap, startled.

"E-excuse me?" Her words stuttered from her lips.

"Tell me...Where are you from?"

"E-e-ellesmera..." she swallowed, and repeated herself, her tone firmer. "Ellesmera."

"What's it like?"

"What – what is it like?" she parroted, confused.

"Tell me about it, tell me anything about it. What it looked like, smelt like – _tasted like_, even –"

"It tasted like crushed rose petals," she said quietly.

"Oh?"

"It was beautiful. Like most elfin cities, but larger, more glorious, more colourful and gay..."

She looked up at him.

"What sort of colours?"

"Greens, mostly... lots and lots of green, rich, leafy and moist greens, the colours of ripening summer fruits... although there wasn't any fruit in Ellesmera. Only flowers. It was always springtime there, never any other season... the forest spirits stopped the seasons from turning, somehow, after the Fall... it was always spring, always growing, always in blossom and bloom. I think the elves who had lived before the Fall – that is, most of them... they didn't want those beautiful days to ever disappear. So they didn't."

"That sounds depressing."

"You think so?"

"Well yes – "

"Do you blame me for joining the Varden then? Because that's the only reason why I think I ever joined. To escape... Does that make me a terrible person? Does it? I used an organisation I never cared about for my own ends – I _used_ people to my own ends, to try and escape Ellesmera... my mother never let me out her clasp for long, of course – "

"What was your mother like?"

For a moment, Murtagh thought he'd asked the wrong question. But she continued regardless.

"... Overbearing. Very, very... well, she was – is – theatrical. She's very... personable. She commands the spotlights, I guess, to put it theatrically. She doesn't mean to, but... she's a creature of the light. And I'm a creature of the dark. She's the butterfly... and I'm the moth. People compared us a lot."

"Ah, I understand that feeling very well."

"Oh," she stopped, remembering _exactly _who she was talking to. "I guess you do."

There was a strained silence. It was her who broke it.

"I wanted to see an autumn day. I've never seen an autumn day before – never. I spent all my times in the dwarven cities of stone, or among the elves – can you envision that? I've lived exactly a hundred years and I've never seen an autumn day... Isn't that terrible? Isn't that absolutely disgusting? That I put years and years and _years_ of effort, of work, of _killing_... just – just to see, to _live_, through..."

_An autumn day._

"I...I'm a terrible person... I'm terrible... Aren't I? Aren't I? Aren't I the _worst?_" she whimpered,

"Not the _worst._"

"Murtagh," she said his name aloud to remind herself of who he was. It was so _easy_ to forget that, to think the man in front of him is the same as the Red Rider... "I don't care if my family is ripped to pieces. I don't care. I _don't care._"

"...I think you do. I think you _do _care very much."

She looked at him, eyes wide and wild, bewiledered.

"...And," he continued. "You might be a terrible person. Maybe. Well, I don't care. Does that make me a terrible person?"

"... Y-Yes. No. I don't-" she squeaked, voice twisting out of control. She covered her mouth as she said it, alarmed, shocked, _afraid_. Murtagh frowned, seeing how serious her face was. He drew her into his arms, and held her close. He grasped her then, pulling her into his arms, into his never-ending arms, and she was held, held by him. She cried a bit. Not much. Not as much as the first time. He was warm... it was comforting.

He carried her into his bedroom, lay her gently down on the bed, and murmured words and worlds gently into her, whispers smelling of broken acorns, ripe, red, juicy berries, and swirling maple leaves... _I don't care. I think you're wonderful. I don't care what you think because I think you're wonderful._

They slept together for the second time. It was gentler, slower, and calmer than the last... not a summer storm, not a hurricane... a whistling autumn breeze. It was stumbling, at times. Awkward. A bit clumsy, still, a bit unsure of itself, still. But... there was a spark of something, in the gentle, strange loving; a spark of something _exciting. _A spark of _discovery. _Something smiling madly.

It was strangely liberating.

Once they had finished, Murtagh began absent-mindedly muttering about all of the autumns he'd ever seen, ever heard of, of all the smells and shades and colours, the golds and the oranges and the reds, he wittered on, fabricating ludicrous tales, as long as he kept talking, pulling images and sounds and smells out of his mind, of bushy tailed pairs of pattering feet and small prickly animals and broken conker shells and hawthorn bushes and swelling berries and bustling cities busy with work again, busy with the world, moving onwards...

He kept on jabbering quietly, singing his bright and bizarre lullaby, stroking her knotted tangles of hair with the back of his hand, muttering, until she fell fast asleep.

Maybe he could fool himself that a part of him wasn't in love with her already. Maybe it wasn't love – Murtagh had never loved before; maybe he was just besotted, maybe he was just enraptured, insane. He wouldn't have been surprised. It had only been two days. And three maddening, chaotic nights... three terrible, three _wonderful _nights.

Because terrible things can be wonderful things too.

He could fool himself a bit longer. He, the fool, who had fallen for an elf.

* * *

><p>She was still sleeping, her body curled upwards and her hair loose and wild, pouring over uncovered skin. There was something bizarrely erotic about it, about how peaceful, how <em>content<em> she looked, that made Murtagh to stroke her, to trace along her body with his lips, over her, devour her, along her neck, her stomach, the insides of her thighs –

_Don't lose yourself, lover boy. _He flicked his forehead with a stray finger, as he buttoned his shirt. He couldn't lose focus of everything because of _her_. If the old stories, the old folklore, the wives' tales had told him anything useful, it was to stick to your own kind. Your own class. Your own species. The difference between the two was negligible. Men and elves weren't meant to love, to love passionately and maddeningly. It wasn't meant to be.

Then again, Murtagh had never been one for complying to social standards. There was once a long-forgotten time in court where he was near-lovingly – because nobles could never address Murtagh without a trembling of fear in their voices, without a hint of reservation, even then – thought of as a maverick. _Everyone loves a rebel_.

He wandered towards the mirror, and began the painstaking process of combing his hair. It was something Murtagh had always been privately fussy about, something no one generally suspected as it tended to result in a greasy, tangled mop despite his efforts. _I wonder if I should grow it longer? What would she think? – _he slapped himself.

_I'm infatuated with her. Already. Good grief. _He sighed, rolling his eyes. _Oh, women. _If only they understood how potent simply around waiting can actually be_... _they'd rule the world. Now _that_ was an amusing thought. Impossible, of course. Women were for waiting and men were for working. Poor men were for starving and rich men were for drowning in their own filth. That was how the world had been designed, this godless, designerless world, Alagaesia. And that could never be changed. _Never._

Murtagh didn't question it. It was the wrong sort of question to _question._ The one that shouldn't be asked. Everyone knew that revolutionaries never made up the history textbooks. They died, or they went insane. They never _won_. Besides, Murtagh had been born with a ruby encrusted spoon in his mouth, and his genitals hanging on the outside. He'd been given all the aces. He'd survived on them this far. Why would someone lucky ever be miserable?

He slammed the door on the way out the bedroom.

_Don't bother me Thorn. _Thorn had not said anything hence far – _stupid dragon never says nothing, nowt, fucking fucking dragon –_ possibly because he had the sense not to. Or maybe because he knew that when Murtagh was like this, he'd never listen to him anyway. No matter how much love Thorn would shower on his Rider, he'd get no response.

He locked himself in his study for an hour. Murtagh had purposefully put the lock on the door for this exact reason. He would do work. He would do the work he had been _planning_ to do yesterday. And he would not – he would _not_ look for the coffee that he had hidden purposefully within the room a week ago. He _would not_.

He would work.

He pulled open a cabinet full of last week's reports he had not yet completed due to yet another _silly mission_ of the King's. He pulled out a thick wad and tossed it onto his desk. He gripped his quill tightly, and dipped it in ink.

He _would work._

Or maybe he wouldn't. He picked up _Tales of the Western Seas_ – whatever the rest of the title was, it was a mouthful.

_The ringing of the twelfth bell of the church tower turned into a death rite. Each Wedn'sday, their names would be read. We knew all of the people. We knew their cheery laughs, their bitter smiles, and now their tears. No one tried to hide their tears anymore; no one tried to hide their thin and rattling sobs, brittle as their starving bones. Barragh cried as the winter rains swept in that year._

_With each passing day, Cillian became more and more impatient. He changed from passing through the village begrudgingly, with dismal remarks and rolling of the eyes, to avoiding it altogether. The boat became his grave. The boat – our boat – our escape, our saviour, our adventure, he held to and cradled it, shielded it from the rain and sleet and hail._

No, this was the wrong page – he had read this far already. Strange. He thought he had already annotated it completely, making additions and markings on its content, just in case Wombat had accidently stumbled upon a goldmine giving him this book. It was strange – the story was simple, hardly compelling, of two brothers running away from their home, into the clutches of pirates, being turned against each other – now, where _had_ Murtagh heard _this_ particular story before? – and eventually saving the day with _brotherly love_. He had rolled his eyes when he realised _that_ was the supreme moral of this tale. But there was something... strange, wicked, _incorrect_ about the book. Magical. So Murtagh had decidedly made precise notes, detailing anything peculiar for thorough research. But all his annotations of this section had completely _disappeared_. Murtagh fingered the musty, yellowing paper. It was completely dry. _How curious._ He turned onwards.

_His words dripped onto my lap, my quaking fingers, like liquid honey. There was some distinguished, something proper, almost royal about the Pirate Lord. He continued: "You are not your brother. That is for sure. You won't be content with my generosity alone."_

"_Your generosity, saire?" I bowed my head when talking to him, my voice trembling of its own accord._

"_Oh – I did not tell you, did I not? I've given permission for your brother Cillian and yourself to stay aboard by ship – your brother, in particular, shows great promise of becoming something more..."_

"_Ah," I responded weakly. "Thank ye', saire." It was a response of politeness, not of jubilation. _

"_It is... my pleasure. But you won't be sated with that, will you not?"_

"_No saire – I'm perfectly content – "_

"_Are you quite entirely sure of that, Aodhan?"_

_I was silent for a moment. I felt my hands shaking, my face turn corpse white. I knew of one thing that I wanted, wanted, so desperately, so dearly, which I was not sure my brother ever did._

"_The plague, saire. A plague haunts our homes saire. It's kill't everyone saire. In Barragh. Where I – where we are from. You can stop it, can't ye saire?"_

"_I can?" he asked amusedly, chortling. "Now, what in hell's dear name has told you that I could possibly do that?"_

"_You're Murtagh, saire – Murtagh the Pirate Lord. You can do anything, they says. You're magical –"_

"_If I am magical, then would I not want something in return? Would I not?"_

_I nodded. I did not know his true power, the secret his allure, whether there was one even at all, but I nodded._

"_Very well then." He walked closer to me and whispered into my ear, his words fluttering and dizzying. "Find me the soul of a faerie, and I will grant your dearest wish, young Aodhan."_

Murtagh scratched his head. He had _definitely _annotated this particular passage, being one of great importance, but not a blotch of ink remained. It was his own fault for not taking separate notes, he assumed. He sighed, reaching for his quill, before a shrill, untimely, _irritating _knocking interrupted him.

He unlocked the door to his study, where a servant stood, demure and dainty and typical in her servant mannerisms. He felt sick to the bottom of his stomach.

"Sire," she said, curtsying fully to the floor, as all servants now did in his presence.

"What in _hell's name_ do you want, girl?" he snapped.

It was obviously fiercer than he had intended, for the girl stood up suddenly, rigidly, her eyes widening, her mouth gaping, quivering a little. _In fear. Murtagh, you're a monster._

"Sire," she spluttered. "I came to inform you that after this morning's court session, the King wishes to see you immediately in his study."

_In person again? _Murtagh quickly dismissed the girl, and shut away his work. He took _the book_, as it was now termed, with him. He'd completely forgotten about the morning court session – he obviously hadn't been paying much attention after Galbatorix had berated him last night for whichever reason he had forgotten.

Sighing, he began to pull out a fresh piece of paper, and began to quickly write...

_I hate writing notes. It's something Galbatorix would do. _Or used to do, as it would be. Galbatorix had not sent him one of his special notes in weeks now. It was very curious.

* * *

><p>She awoke on the bed. Alone.<p>

There was a note prised between her sleeping hands, covered in hurried scrawl – recognisable scrawl. She'd seen the words scratched over it before – they were the tired, sorry words of a working man.

""On duty. Again. Will not be back for two weeks. _Really_ sorry."

The note was... messier than last time. More unrestrained. It babbled on a little about the books she had decidedly not read, making a few mildly amusing remarks – typically Morzansson-ian humour, amusing yet not hilarious – about various aspects of metaphysics he thought were 'complete hogwash', whatever that phrase meant. He thanked her for eating all of her meals – something she did not think needed thanking, but he did it regardless. He then briefly mentioned something about the theatre, and included tickets for a performance later that week that she might like to watch – although she didn't _have_ to.

"...In case you want to see. I was going to refer you to a Historical play – although in consideration, I don't think you'd like it much. I'm not much a fan of historical literature myself – probably for the same reasons as you. Still, have included tickets for _The Tempest. _Enjoy – if you want, that is."

Then the last sentence:

"Wish I could stay."

That strange, unfamiliar last sentence... it had been squashed into tight, packed letters, as if it urged to spill out across the page and cover it all.

She tucked it away. As with the last note, she swore internally to burn it. Except not now. Later. And as with the last note, she never would.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** D'aaw, Murtagh's so cute when he's infatuated. Oh, and _The Tempest_ is an awesome play - and pretty relevant to this story, with mentions of magic and vengeance and knowledge and love. It's about forgiveness, or acceptance, even - and since everyone in Alagaesia is totally bent on vengeance of some kind, pretty much, it's probably something worth watching. Maybe I should forward Paolini a copy of it. Seriously, if there was more forgiveness and love, I bet half this war wouldn't be happening.

Restrained Freedom: Yeah, Eragon's sort using his feelings for Arya as an excuse to escape the war - I think he's confused. He's definitely obsessed with her, infatuated, but he's now realising how little infatuation means... I think he's a bit emotionally exhausted at the moment, hence the cliché of crying in the rain. Oh, and he wanted to torch the village since he had been caught and needed to burn any evidence of his tracks. Sort of brutal, really.

Witchy Pixie: Yeah, I write a rubbish Saphira. I actually don't like Saphira as a character at _all_ XD. So I'm sort of trying to write her fleetingly if ever, just because I hate writing her. I think that's the last you'll hear of her for a while.


	23. Heil Murtagh!

X: Heil Murtagh!

_"Hated by many, wanted by plenty, disliked by some, confronted by none." - Unknown.  
><em>

* * *

><p>"Murtagh, what the fuck are you doing?"<p>

The spiralling atrium of the King's court was decidedly empty. The nobles were already jostling inside, waiting. Instead, the black, jagged, teeth-like prongs which jutted from the walls – _décor_, Murtagh had always supposed – were being leant against by two, slightly scruffy, slightly mismatched teenage boys. One of whom had his nose decidedly stuck in a book.

"Reading," said the dark-haired boy, firmly, without looking up from the page. "And using the word 'fuck' does not make you cool."

"Fuck off."

"Whatever, Atty."

"Don't call me that."

"I'll call you what I want."

Roy, or 'Atty', the blond-haired boy in a blazing scarlet coat done up a few brass buttons too tightly, was scowling. A red, angry, scowl that made his cheeks plump up rather demurely. His cheeks always did that. Something shrivelled aunts and uncles often liked to make light of, irritatingly.

He thumped the other boy.

The other boy hit him back twice as hard.

"Not the face!"

Murtagh rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

"Oh, you're so _infantile._ I can't believe we're the same age."

They stopped fighting then. There was no point continuing. Murtagh would win. Murtagh would _always_ win. In everything. He was smarter, stronger, and better than Roy. It was infuriating. But it was life. And Roy had to deal with it. He had to deal with being the second son, the second best, dumped in Uru'baen by his second-rate parents to become a second-rate soldier. He was even born on the second of October, the second of the vile, accursed month of the dead, of the mystics and the magical ghouls. The same day that Murtagh was born on. _Of course._

He slumped on the ledge which the dark-haired boy had retreated to, sighing. "I don't get it Murt. Why are you dreading this so much?"

The dark-haired boy tossed his head back, sighing exhaustively. He shut the book flat, his hands clapping together.

"Because," he peered directly at Roy now. "It's a colossal waste of time. Nothing important will be said – maybe some bills argued for, tit for tat, but it'll mostly be drunk jesters, whores, and some fat bloke who can breathe fire trying to 'entertain' us. They completely glamorise it because it makes nobles feel like they're actually _important._ It won't be like what we're told it is."

Roy frowned. "You've never been to Court before – how do _you _know?"

"I just do."

"No you don't_._" He spat the words, hissed them. "You're not psychic and you're certainly not magical. You definitely weren't right the last time when you said Tornac was for the axe."

He looked up to Murtagh. It was hard to loathe, even then, a boy whose smug words were never accompanied by a smug expression. It was hard to hate, to have your blood simmer and boil and burst, when you were in the adversary of a blank, emotionless, faceless wall – who at most was ever patronising, or muttering things nonchalantly from the page of a book.

This particular time, Murtagh rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. Again.

"I'm right on this one, trust me. You'll hate it. You'll think it a bore. You'll tell me in five years time that it's all a huge waste of time."

* * *

><p>"Murtagh, what are you doing?"<p>

The voice was familiar, but the tone – slightly worried, agitated, almost revering, was not. The King's Right Hand man, the dark, brooding, mysterious Red Rider, stopped. His scathing gaze pinned itself on the origin of the voice, a man with tufts of blond hair, his blazing scarlet coat, that of the Empire's army, still one brass button too tight.

"What is it Atkinson? I'm a busy man. Court starts in five minutes," he replied blankly. Of _course_ Murtagh replied blankly. It was the only way Atkinson had ever been addressed by him since they had both joined the military.

"Well..." Atkinson swallowed. He was not used to addressing people in this way. Especially in a bustling corridor packed with various whispering nobles, who were now gawking at the sight of _Murtagh_ stopping for _anyone_. For what was the point of a Red Rider if he was not a ruthless, scheming bastard? It was what the role required. And Murtagh could act it tremendously – or terribly if he was so inclined, they'd still believe him regardless. People saw what they wanted to see.

"I'm actually concerned for your own neck here–"

"_My _neck? I'm honestly _flattered_. Pay me lip service next time you take an arrow for me."

Atkinson simply glared in response. He was _not_ going to get out of this one _through wit_.

"I'm _busy_ – I _need_ to go–"

"_Sir_ – people are _whispering,_ spreading rumours;they're saying things about you–"

Murtagh cocked an eyebrow upwards. "I'm a bit of a rumour-monger aren't I? Look. This is a waste of time–"

"They're scared and they're unhappy and they're now looking up to you_. _Because of what you did last week in court."

"I did something?"

For a moment – just a short, sweet moment, he looked genuinely surprised. As if he'd been lost in a firestorm, a ferocious blaze of his own convoluted thoughts – whatever things Morzansson troubled himself to think about. Atkinson was not a _thinking _man himself. Stray thoughts were prattle. He was a _doing_ man. He was probably lost in a pretentious little intellectual rant of his, possibly on the merits of Aristotle or Plato or Beelzebub or something similarly odious. But... that surprised face of his, that often unseen mark of humanity... Atkinson knew he was lost in something grander, more divine, more stunning... not a firestorm of thought, but the scent of crushed rose petals drifting in the wind... a woman?

_Oh Murtagh, you have the worst timing in the world. _

The Second-in-Command, the King's Right Hand Man, Morzan's own Blasted Offspring himself, was now officially a _Lovestruck Fool._ And within the short, sweet moment Atkinson had noticed this, his expression had had crumpled back into cynical normality.

He glared right back at it.

"Don't be so fucking obstinate. You know what I'm talking about."

The walking out in court. The 'being rebellious'. The 'being Murtagh'. Because, of course, Murtagh had always been a rebel inside. Always. It was in his blood of course – Morzan was a rebel too, always had been, he was famed for it. To the point where one wondered, flicking absent-mindedly through a history textbook, if he was utterly stupid or utterly brilliant.

And people expected that of Murtagh – so he defied their expectations by conforming. Ironically – and irony was something Uru'baen loved. He went to military academy aged sixteen, would be a faithful soldier for a good couple of years, before settling into a respectable profession – possibly a lawyer, or a high profile merchant. He excelled at military academy, the top of the top of the top class (whereas Atkinson had always been at the bottom of the top of the top class), a reasonable enough chap to deal with. Enough to be almost liked, enough to be almost accepted. _Almost_. Never completely, never, he could never be such a thing as normal, no – he scared them. He always scared them; the boy, then the man, whose stature, whose presence, whose mannerisms and appearance was nearly completely his father's. That was a smothering shadow he could never escape.

People, then, eventually began to expect what he was – a thorough cynic, a child pretending to be an adult, running away from the strangling nightmares that haunted his footsteps. He always looked miserable – _always_, even when laughing – to the point people did not question it, simply expect it. That was when he ran away.

People didn't expect that. People didn't expect when he came back. People didn't expect when he ran out of court – and they _loved_ him for it. They did not admit this of course, that they loved this _monster_, this _animal_ of their own creation. After all, what is noble about nobility? A nobility that is too afraid, too anxious, too aware of their own position – that a hundred years ago, their ancestors had not a drop, not a sword's worth of noble blood of them, that they were all fools and squanderers. They were too weak to stand on their own feet, so knelt – at Galbatorix's instead. Giving crimson gifts from crimson-stained hands, along with few buckets of blood tossed in for kicks, was easier than doing good.

But Murtagh didn't do that. He stood on his own. He spoke with words, not swords. Murtagh had never really understood that – how _weak_ people can be. How they thirst, they crave and clamour for an opinion of someone else's, not their own, which they can rabbit and repeat and mutter to their enemies as they slash their throats. How they would prefer to kneel, not to stand and be knocked down again and again and again.

Murtagh didn't realise that he could easily, _easily, _if he was aware of his own position, if he could just grow some ambition, if he could just _grow up_, then he could be sitting in Galbatorix's throne within a couple of years. And people would be bowing to him, _kneeling_ to him. Because who ever heard of a King of an Empire? What the Empire wanted – no, _needed_ – was someone grander, stronger, darker – more ruthless. More _serious_. Willing to take the reins into his own hands, to charge at the front of a glorious scarlet army. More bloodthirsty. A monster.

An Emperor.

"Actually, I don't know what you're talking about, Atkinson."

He was then shoved out of the way. Ruthlessly. Thrown, almost, with the might of one hand, into the wall. As if the two men had never known each other. Well, Atkinson could have known that would have happened – he was a lower class than Murtagh. A lower breed – breeding was how Alagaesia worked, after all. Murtagh had superior blood; Atkinson didn't. And he was not to insult his superior, even away from the battlefield.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: The last comment about 'superior blood' was originally 'superior genes' before I realised there's no such thing as genetics in Alagaesia. Speak of superior genes along with the vaguely Imperialist/right-wing branch of thought reminded me of Nazi Eugenics, hence the title.

I know I portray Atkinson as being a little boorish, although I think despite not being so bookish, he's still actually quite intelligent. I have to keep checking back on my earlier chapters now though (chapter nine seems so far away) to ensure that my minor characters stay consistent. Atkinson's always been bitter and generally pissed off, although in slightly different ways. I sort of admire him as a character overall - he's acutely aware of his own position and laments it, whereas Murtagh can be a bit bullheaded about things (Murtagh deliberately can ignore things to keep him sane, and alter his own perception of the world to suit him - hence the 'it never happened' comment. In Murtagh's mind, it literally did not happen). Still, Atkinson's loyal to the Empire regardless, it's his home, even if it's his slightly dystopian silly home. Unlike so many damn characters in this fic, he's not in denial about anything.

Thanks for reading, folks :)


	24. Interlude

_A Brief Interlude_

* * *

><p>"And I'm looking at a blank page now<br>Should I fill it up with words somehow?"

- _Mellontree Scratch, Porcupine Tree_

* * *

><p>For those weeks, she had bided her time almost happily. <em>Almost. <em>She scoured the city, wandering those cobbled streets and mysterious alleys through the sweaty, sticky, thick days and the breezy nights. Soldiers, sailors, tinkers, tailors – she passed them all, sometimes with a nervous, trembling wave. She'd shake with childish glee as she did it.

Sometimes they waved back.

But not often. They were translucent, half-formed waves – casual little things, pop up of the hand, a cheery grin, now _that _was the Uru'baenite way. As if they'd know she was here all along – as if _yeh'd always been 'bout roundheres, poppet_.

She would shake her head – no, she was _dreaming_, she was imagining, they could _not _have seen her, they _could not have_ – she would tell herself logically. Soundly. Sanely. But she would shake her maddeningly, her dark and daring tangles of hair spilling and unfurling and breaking loose, breaking free, screaming. Because Arya was mad now, wasn't she?

Sometimes, wandering timidly along those black back alleys, without direction, without cause, she would get lost.

Lost.

Completely and utterly.

It was a terrifying feeling. Arya had never been lost before. Never. She had to be practical, of course – retrace her steps, reroute her position, look for familiar markings, do the correct thing. She would calm down – she _would not cry and she was not a child. _Or maybe she was. Maybe that was what she was, a hundred year old child that ran rampage around the streets. That child, that strange, vicious child would grin and beam wickedly, chuckle, it _enjoyed_ being lost. It _enjoyed_ not knowing... not knowing anything.

She would do stupid things.

She stole things. Small things mostly. A broken pocketwatch. A handful of poppy seeds. A cow bell. These things meant nothing, nothing to nobody, but Arya counted as nobody, and she wanted nothing much. She'd quickly place a couple of sovereigns she had been given on the doorstep, counter, stall. She didn't know their true price. She only knew their value.

Morzansson had also insisted that she eat properly again – so she would swipe food. A couple of toffee treats, sweets, thick-crusted pastries stinking of rotting apples, straight off the edge of a _patisserie_ counter, to use an elfin term. Sometimes the baker's teenage son raised a questioning eyebrow in her direction, as if seeing elfin-ghost-princesses was a regular occurrence, before slouching back into his usual slapdash, irritable sulk. She would laugh.

Laugh? Her? Arya? She had laughed. Well.

And the maids – a few of them, sometimes, noticed her. She got a curtsy once – a quick bob up and down again, a little piece of respect, but most just nodded, and a couple smiled. Knowingly. They weren't anything like the grand, the gracious, the majestic spectacle that Morzansson received in a curtsy, where they'd fall gracefully to the floor, and offer to spill the contents of their quivering hearts at his feet. Which she found rather laughable, actually. If Morzansson had a choice, he'd lock himself up in his study and never come out again.

Maybe, she wondered, all this farce – all this waving, wandering, stealing scraps of food, running around the palace at breakneck speed, petting wild dogs and hissing at wild cats, dancing with the rats... was this living? It was different, being Malena. It didn't follow rules. Regulation. Protocol. Orders. It was about the expression on her face.

And sometimes she might even smile.

But often she'd simply cry.

Not for anyone's sake in particular. Just her own. Which was possibly _somewhat_ selfish, her inner monologue would hiss. She had always been selfish. _Always_. Some things would not change easily. But life wasn't easy anymore. Not since she had left Ellesmera.

For one, it was lonelier.

But that had been the risk she'd been willing to take.

_To live._

What _did_ that phrase actually mean? She had honestly not a semblance of an idea... maybe she should ask Morzansson when he got back? He liked metaphysics, didn't he? Arya honestly found it absurd, all the pondering and postulating and the fictitious examples and questions and quizzical looks and _queries_ – all somewhat pompous, and rather silly. A bit like most humans. She didn't pretend to understand humans. Crude, callous, hopelessly cruel and completely asinine – that was fact... but still, somehow – almost, nearly _elusive_ things: strange and mysterious creatures – because of it – perhaps...

There were differences between humans and elves. For one, she didn't like questions of any kind. She liked straight fact. It was the only thing she could ever use. But _he_ didn't... no, he was _different_... he _loved_ it.

Yes. She would ask him. She had decided.

She turned from the weathered balcony, atop which she had leant wistfully, wondering, a lady musing, with wild scrapes of hair fluttering artfully in the breeze. The blossoming night sky shone above her, burning brilliant purples and flowing crimsons, and still, still, the stars ever glittering. She did not like the stars. She had decided.

She wasn't very good at deciding things.

(That was something she pretended not to realise.)

She preferred it now, she had_ also_ decided. The sun had sunk, swamped by the waves of the raucous city twilight, crashing and smashing and clinking glasses and swaying candles in not-yet-drunken hazes. Under the darkness' cloak, Uru'baen would roar... Yes, strangely. She liked it.

She wouldn't always come outside to the balcony, to _Morzansson's_ balcony, which overlooked the city squalor, in the night. Sometimes. But not always.

And then there were sometimes she would hear plucked strands, soothing; delicate morsels...

_Grandioso._

She preferred it to mornings.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: It felt wrong to number this chapter, for some reason. Oh yes, I still am alive. I'm not giving up on this story and I definitely plan to finish it by next summer. I have had this incredible story inside of me for so long (some elements of this story I came up with just after Brisingr came out) and I just want to get it out of my system. As for excuses... well, my application for university has to be in for tomorrow... I'm busy and stressful at the moment, and obviously I've started school again which is sapping a lot of my time. But I'm excited, strangely. Last year of school, and lots to come afterwards.

Yes, this is a short chapter, but it's an excuse not to have to update until my birthday :P

Witchy Pixie: Solidarity! *hi-fives*. Yeah, that always seemed sort of stupid... and excuse to mock it all, though XD. As for knowing Murtagh better than CP does... eh, I think my Murtagh is different from CP's. There's some slight differences there - subtle ones. CP's Murtagh was never half as bookish, for example - but I always thought being a noble, and rather isolated, that would make sense. I try to give him a few more specific characteristics. I think if you treat characters like human beings, they'll speak and act like human beings and live for themselves. And human beings are complex things with lots of facets and moods and motivations. They're not chess pieces, but chess players. Which is the difference between me and CP - I'm not sure about myself, but CP treats his characters like pieces which he can move because he needs them to for his plot to work.


	25. Consummation

XII: Consummation

_"A plague o' both your houses!" - Mercutio, Act III Sc I, Romeo and Juliet._

* * *

><p>It was still dripping with rain. It slithered down the well-trodden dirt track, arching, swerving and curling through the valley. The ravaged fields wilted. Abandoned cottages, doors boarded firmly nailed shut – they crumbled under the rain. Through the choking mists of drizzle, walked no one. They had left their decrepit hovels, clutching their cloaks, head down, days ago. The downpours were an excuse to get out before the soldiers got in, after all.<p>

The thought of soldiers storming the, admittedly, rather _unkempt_ bundle of quaint and quirky villages along the east edge of Leona was once thought inconsiderable. Not anymore, it seemed.

Jude was walking alone. He had brought Zar'roc, again, under another weathered and weary disguise. He found his wrinkling hands – calloused, worn, withering hands which in too many ways were more like Murtagh's than his own – clutching to the sword more often. _Hard times_, he would mutter, decidedly, to anyone who dared ask, if his cold glare was not enough to dissuade them. Hard as cool, blood-stained steel. _Maybe they were right to fear soldiers, _he thought with a scowl. But Jude was not here to work – no, this was _personal._

It had been four weeks since he had last seen Haeye. Frisky June, sweet-strawberry-pink, had given way to a morose July. The sweltering heat and heaps of peat and hollering calls and racing cats and dogs – gone. The triumphant thirteen clanging bells of this cluttered, clumsy town were just a chaotic echo, swept away by the storm. The streets were empty, clogged with backwash and grimy floodwater. The doors of crooked houses were nailed tightly shut. Only the rain remained.

Haeye had always been a dying town. The quaint shuttered windows and gentle windchimes hung outside each vast porch of the main street, singing in the wind, tinkling, precariously... they were lingering echoes of another era, of another time, that grew fainter and fainter with each wind's whisper, with each passing sun. The scrabble of a town had once belonged to the gentry, of which only murky tombstones and long, bleak funerals in the Northern moors remained. It had once been a most fashionable holiday – holiday, what a word! – destination prior to the Fall, filled with the fragrant airs and graces of silken women and velvet men. Music lived there, and laughed there, once. Dances, balls, masquerades; they all fleeted in and out under the watchful eye of the ancient D'Haeye family. The town was, after all, only ten miles away from Old Leona – the most wonderful city in the world, they did say, where the magnificent Masques, esteemed in rumour and in riches, would flaunt a majestic display, of wondrous poetry, mystic power, and _music _– something mere words could not, and dared not, describe, the stuff which dreams were made of...

Until Leona burnt down.

And with a flutter of leaves in the fall, blood spilt over the plump carpets, over the ragged floors, like wine – Châteaux D'Haeye 1439 – and the Riders' Autumn finally came. D'Haeye became Haeye, and Haeye disintegrated into crumbling old books and peasant mudshacks stinking of old leather boots.

And now there was nothing left.

And all Murtagh could do is dream of what he had lost. And work, of course. He always worked, even when he was holidaying in a vast dream.

* * *

><p>The interlude ended when he came back.<p>

"Murtagh–"

The Rider walked passed her. He was still wearing his rich, scented travelling furs, clad in leather and steel, with triumphant vermillion and gold trimmings. His hair was soaked, blackened by rainfall; his face was pale and shining. The vacant, glazed honeyed-brown gaze stared only forwards. It did not look at Arya. A naked tongue protruded from the leathery lip of his belt – his sword – his _father's_ sword – the sword he wore only grudgingly.

It stank of blood.

"Murtagh–"

He walked into his study. He did not give a single glance back. Not a notice, not a nod of the head, not a single murmur or mutter or signal or sign. He did not explain why he had returned a week early. He did not explain why now, late in the evening, the stars ever twinkling again...

Arya did not understand.

Or she pretended not to.

* * *

><p>A fierce knock at the door.<p>

A small, withered silhouette of a woman, wrapped in a flimsy shawl, stirred. She was sat on the spindly stool, underneath a vast loom of grey and black thread, in the shadowy, stinking hut that was, and had always been, her home.

A second fierce knock at the door.

No children's cries or corpses lingered in the hut. No plagued bodies rotted in the depths. No, it was only the sad, old stink of a lone woman. She continued with her work, weaving. Clothes. Grey and black. Peasants always wore grey and black and brown. No one wore any colour but red. It was the only practical colour.

The door swung open. Suddenly. The woman stood up from her stool, wincing, in the shards of the cloudy light.

"Your name is Gwyneth. Yes?"

The words were sharp and staccato. They sliced the air. They were the words of a soldier.

"'Tis, sir."

She was shaking. Her crooked, hunched body was shaking. The whites of her eyes shimmered and shone, streaked in blood. But she stood still.

"You have been the neighbour of Rufus Cohen for..."

The man gesticulated sharply towards her.

"Since 'e came to Haeye, sir. I've lived here all my life, like my mother did, and my grandmother did – and I'll live here 'till my death, too, mister sir."

The man walked into the piercing light. His features she recognised – she had seen the foreign, alien profile before whilst spending a spare penny on charms at the market. Sharp nose. Soft mouth. Calloused, middle-aged hands. A wild, curly mane of thick, greying hair. The stern, upright hold of a soldier – it unnerved her. And luminous honey-brown eyes, eyes which were misplaced, eyes which did not _belong_, eyes which never flinched or flickered away.

"He's gone," said Jude, glaring.

"I didn't know that," she snapped, wearily. "Last time I talked to the rotten bastard was god knows – only god _ever_ knows 'ow long ago. He prob'ly left town with the rest of 'em, the bloody coward. Doubt he'll come back. No one ever liked 'im, enyway – he was _pompous_, yeh see."

The man had crossed his arms now, still glaring, still waiting for her to finish. Gwyneth wondered if he really had listened to a word she'd said –

"How long ago was this?"

"A couple o' weeks or so. Not long."

"Why did they leave town?"

Her fingers, spiderlike, crawling fingers were shaking – shaking.

"You shoulden't ask questions, mister. It's bad –"

"I'll ask what I want." He grew closer. "And you'll answer."

There was a terrifying certainty, a terrifying authority to his words. The midday bells of the distance chapel tolled as he spoke again, thumping out one by one.

Dong.

_The ringing of the twelfth bell of the church tower turned into a death rite. _

Dong.

_Each Wedn'sday, their names would be read. _

Dong.

_We knew all of the people. _

Dong.

_We knew their cheery laughs, their bitter smiles, and now their tears. _

Dong.

_We could see the bodies hidden by cloth outside the village hall, lined one, by one, by one._

Dong.

_No one tried to hide their tears anymore; No one tried to hide their thin and rattling sobs, brittle as their starving bones._

Dong.

_Barragh cried as the winter rains swept in that year._

Dong.

Dong.

_... As I__rose to greet her, this strange creature, this faerie, gaunt-faced, broken-eyed faerie, I could not help myself. I cried. I cradled her, cradled her disgusting, putrid form...she stank of crushed rose petals, rotting and withered..._

Dong.

Dong.

_They were blue roses. Impossible in nature, impossible in science – but in a world governed by magic, by mayhem, by desperate nightmares and dreams... they could bloom..._

Dong.

Dong.

"A plague sir. A plague has befallen our houses," she said, his wispy voice creaking, her head shaking, shaking, no, no _no_ – "It killed 'alf the women, and all the children – _all _of 'em – it killed Martyn, and Ivor, and Wynne – that's where they are. They're at a funeral now. They're burying Ceri at the lake...

The man did not say anything.

"The plague turned her body black, black and red and blistering, and she was screaming, screaming, the whole of Haeye could 'ear her wail like a babe... and it spread. There's a black star on every door now, painted there, a warning sir, a warning for all 'cept the mad – oh god sir, our Wombat ran, like the rest, they w-were _afraid. _And you sir! Do you know what they say about you? Do yeh? D-do yeh!"

She stammered. Her face was streaked in tears.

"They say _you_ brought it here. They say you brought it upon us, you terrible stranger. I bet all you want is the key to 'is 'ouse, so yeh can plunder 'is books! I'm not lettin' yeh – no. I never will. This all started with _you_, yeh know. It's that bloody – that _sword._"

She pointed at it, stabbing the air, repeatedly - _derangedly_. Because a lone woman was a mad one.

"The day you left, the day yeh last left, with that _sword_ – we remember these things, y'know – _this!" _she threw up her hands at the sky, the blustery storm clouds, black and remorseless. Except she couldn't see the sky. There was a roof in the way. "_This_, is _your_ fault. You brought this misery to us. You brought all this death and destruction, you brought it all."

He twitched at the word _misery_. But he was still silent.

"No one else comes here but you, just you – I don't know of anything else that _could'eve _done it – it _must_ have been you, we don't have any of yer poncy city richmen's _'medicine'_ to protect us – only god, and what a bastard, what a bastard he is! It _must_ have been you. You killed us all – "

She gulped. And stammered.

"You _killed_ us – "

"I didn't."

A grin. A twisted, mockery of a grin. A grin that looked like it wanted to cry, to weep, to rip the world to coloured shreds and then consume itself in its madness, a hungering, ravenous madness. It was a face that Jude would have never had pulled – never.

The face of a monster. The face of a devil.

"You _killed _– "

The man walked towards her. He unsheathed his sword.

"You – "

And the world, the black and grey world, draped in poor man's rags, became enveloped in dangerous red – the only colour nobles ever wore these days.

* * *

><p>Arya screamed.<p>

"M-Murtagh!"

He wasn't listening to her. He wasn't listening to her. He wasn't listening to her.

"Murtagh! Murtagh!"

Could he not see her at all? Was she simply invisible again? Was she but a mirage to him?

"Murtagh Murtagh Murtagh Murtagh Murtagh!"

She was shrieking his name now.

_This is for the best. You should have never been with him in the first place._

Arya was shaking.

_He is on the wrong side. If you care not for the Varden, then so be it – but you are still an elf. You cannot change that, no matter how much you disguise yourself. _

"I don't care," she mumbled.

_You would have left him eventually. Your... your... feelings –_ she winced –_ are perverse and obscene and would have thrown you far astray. This was not meant to be – _she winced again – _and you know that. _

"I don't care," she repeated.

_He is on the losing side._

"I don't care! I don't – I _can't _–" she trailed off, slowly, sinking to her knees. He could not hear an utterance, a single syllable, of what she was saying… oh, how _monstrous_ it was. How was it that apathy could be crueller than cruelty itself? She hated it. She hated it – she hated being ignored. She hated being left out in the cold, cold world, alone – no other – wandering, a wistful ghost, the echoes of rotting skeletons still lingering, soft and fresh words, cupped in her ears… She viciously pinched herself.

"I'm _meant_ to betray, I'm _made_ to betray – I'm callous, I'm cruel, I'm so, so, so..."

Human.

That was the worst part.

She loathed humans. Just as she loathed elves. Just as she loathed _everything._ Nothing, absolutely _nothing_ had been worth the slightest amount of love, tenderness, or heart-warming, forgiving, beaming smiles since Gil'ead. Nothing. Especially herself.

Murtagh was no exception to this rule. Pity him, spare some stray affection to the most loathsome man, she did. But not love. She did not love him. She could not, would not, should not love him. Arya could not, would not, should not love.

... Yet – she said, yet. Yet each time he smiled, each time he mumbled and muttered a stray remark, each time his fingers gently traced the ghost of her hand... each whisper of his, each story, of autumn days, that touched and graced her ears, she felt her stomach clench and tremble, her fingers shiver and shake, drowning in quivering ecstasy, overflowing with _guilt_. Guilt and hatred.

It was _wonderful._

She did not love him. Yet it did not stop her _wanting_ him. And now he would very possibly never see her again.

_Murtagh._

She screamed his name, she howled it, for the third time, she belted it out and let it roar and screamed. Like an animal.

_Murtagh._

She was screaming as if she were about to die.

* * *

><p>Gwyneth was dead.<p>

Something had killed her. Not Murtagh – not Zar'roc – not even Jude. Because Jude – he had never killed before, never killed anybody, never hurt anyone, Jude was ordinary, he was average, he was just another traveller, and he was _not a monster._

But it was his body that killed her.

Had Jude killed her?

_Had he?_

There was no one else there but – oh god, oh god, he had killed her, hadn't he? He must have, he _must have_, there was no one else –

He. Had. Killed. Her.

He had screamed and stabbed her and there was blood, blood, red, hot, horrible blood staining things and her body was limp and she had screamed and he spilt things and books were everywhere – books, beautiful books and they were red, and things were on fire and oh god oh god oh god he was so angry he had to kill her he had to he had to he had –

_I'm a monster._

Murtagh muttered a few words. The disguise was gone, the mask unveiled. He could never be Jude again. He would kill himself. Jude had never killed before and would have killed himself in the process, screaming and crying and choking on his own sword.

But Murtagh was a soldier. He had killed. He couldn't remember how many times. Too many times. All he did was shake his head with disgust.

He lugged the body over his shoulder and left. He would dump it in the lake later.

* * *

><p>He heard the scream.<p>

He turned around. Broken from a trance, his head swung back, his eyes wide and worried – excited – feverish, almost, anxious –

"Malena?"

He ran to her – stumbling – awkwardly, pulling her into a sudden embrace, clinging to her fiercely, desperately, with fumbling hands, brushing her skin, running through her hair.

"What is wrong?"

It was her who asked the question.

"Nothing," he murmured, his lips brushing the rims of her ear. They were wet. "Nothing at all."

He pulled away for a moment, staring directly into her gaze. His eyes, a deep and dark brown, twinkled beneath a pair of thick, black eyebrows. Madly. Brutally. It was strange to think those wide and wild eyes were the exactly same shape and shade as his younger brother's, yet so overwhelming, so rich and ravishing and raw.

Did she just describe Murtagh as _ravishing?_

"Your… hair is longer," she said. It was a blunt statement. A correct one, too. His hair had shot down by at least four inches, now traipsing along his shoulder-line.

"Magic," he chuckled. He tapped the side of his nose, and patted where his crystal was hidden beneath his clothing.

"It looks terrible." This statement was correct also.

He winced for a brief moment, looking as he wanted to cry – before he suddenly burst into streams of laughter. As if she had said the quaintest, dearest, most adorable thing in the world – before cutting short, gripping her head by his fingertips, and launching into frenzied, devouring kissing.

He did not let go for minutes.

"S-sorry," he stammered breathlessly. "I – sorry, I needed, I – "

She grabbed him then, and repeated the deed. He was still laughing and smiling and grinning – wickedly – as they devoured each other. So was she.

They were thinking of exactly the same thing.

And it did not matter what had come before, and it did not matter what would come after. It was the present now, and in the present they were ripping off each others' clothes and throwing them across the reception room, with hungry, gnawing hands and delighted smiles, wicked smiles, between the harsh kisses and the cackles of insane, crazed laughter, weak laughter, sobbing laughter – oh, it was _wonderful._

Their room, their world, transformed with every clawing grasp, as the austere furniture pieces were sliced into pieces and sprawled upwards, into twisting, turning, bristling trees, hooked with leaves, hanging beneath a bewildered night, cold, naked, moonless. It did not matter if it were just a dream – just a story, for children – for they could feel and touch and smell nothing but each others' flesh.

They had sex on the forest floor. Raw and wild and ravenous sex. Mad sex. Dirty, dirty, dirty sex. _Twice._

And this time, they couldn't deny it, they couldn't forget it, and they couldn't wish it away. Or maybe they could – but neither of them wanted to.

Once they had finished, they curled backwards onto a bed of freshly-fallen leaves, crisp tatters of dreams scattered across the hardwood floor. They lay completely naked. They had absolutely no intention of putting their clothes on.

Between the sporadic gaps of silence, they mumbled gently to each other, softly, slowly. About their lives, mainly. Murtagh learnt that Arya's favourite colour was red. He loathed the colour. He preferred a deep, murky green, the colour of many esteemed childhood storybooks. She, too, loathed the colour – it reminded Arya of pretentious elfin-gothic architecture. All frills, no substance to – that was something they both agreed on. Murtagh chuckled – he too could barely understand the romanticism attached to forlorn, derelict Rossetti-era gothic manors in the wild moorlands north of Narda. Nostalgia, for him, had always been a curse, not weakness – why were things always better in the good old days, in the times gone by? Arya nodded vividly – she agreed. She had never agreed so much in her lifetime – and she relented about how it ruined her sixty years of childhood. Sixty years? – he asked, astounded. She, then, was merely more than a child. Just as he was. She then weakly chuckled, and absently noted he did not remotely sound like a northerner, for someone who had spent half their childhood there. He snorted, retorting that she did not sound remotely _humanat all..._

But they mostly lay in silence, their fingertips gently drifting against each other, lost in whirlwinds of their own thoughts, their own worlds, with just a brief moment of contact, tender touch, just a brief moment...

It was enough to let Murtagh forget how many people he had murdered this week.

_Don't ask me how many, Thorn. Not that the dragon needed to ask – Murtagh asked the questions. Thorn just meekly grumbled at the back of his mind – no more. For all the nuisance Murtagh had expected, the dragon dared not even linger, even probe, even touch Murtagh's storming mind during his erratic fornications. He never spoke. He only witnessed in silence. He didn't even watch._

_You know better than to ask me that anyway. Because the answer was obvious – how many people had Murtagh killed? Even an imbecile could answer it._

_The answer is always too many._

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: A rehashed chapter 25. I hated the original Gwyneth section of the first chapter 25 to the point I _had_ to change it, as opposed to writing a new chapter. It's much more coherent now. And much more emotional. And Gwnyeth combines fiesty and vulnerable better - I find fiesty characters hard to pull off, since everyone makes them clichéd and they're such big clichés in themselves, but I think I've given her some nice bite without ruining her. Murtagh's action here is... I feel a little bit more well explained. It's still ambiguous, but I sorta intended it to be like that. Murtagh can be irrational, occaisionally, although he likes to pretend he's infallible to that sort of incompetence.

I forgot to ask last time, but did you notice parts of one of the Murtagh Pirate Lord's exceprts in the midst of that? Because they were there :P


	26. Summer's Sweetest Nightmares

XIII: Summer's Sweetest Nightmares

* * *

><p><em>' "I think we've all gone mad," she said, laughing rather frightened.<em>

_"Pity we aren't madder," he answered. '_

_- Women In Love, D.H. Lawrence._

* * *

><p>They spent the entire week in bed. Beneath roasting silken sheets, entire worlds were unveiled, rich fantasies, which they would proceed to copulate in. Fur-topped forests; creamy pastures wide and smooth; white, wordless beaches kissed by the wandering waves... they were strange worlds indeed for a grisly knight, lacking in gallantry.<p>

But he loved them. So did she – such expressions of hellish pleasure he had never seen before, and he wanted to savour them, how delicious she was, how _wonderful_ she was – he could _idolise_ her, he could consume her whole, worship her like a madman then destroy her with a crumbling fist. Oh, he was so delusional, so, so wonderfully delusional.

In these worlds, they created magic. Not dictated by rules, but by pure feeling, by pure desire. They loved in these worlds, their worlds, only theirs.

They _craved_ them.

He gave up work. Or rather, put it aside on a 'short-term and strictly temporary basis', as he tossed stacks of paperwork out of the window, streams of highly confidential confetti. He locked the door to his quarters, and tossed the key into a sewer. They were trapped, confined in their vivid dreams, fluttering through clouds of dragon smoke, consuming each other over and over again. Over and over again. He assured her, as his fingers trailed up her lean, naked thighs, that he did not have the situation under strict control, and never wanted to have it again.

He wanted her, and only her.

In the days, they would dance. But in the nights, they would escape their prison - by _magic_, Murtagh would always say, tapping his nose with a grin – breaking through the windows, climbing down the twisted ivy weeds, tumbling into the twisted world below. They took risks. And loved them. They ran across the old town, beneath crooked buildings winding up and down, under a twirling carousel of stars, from door to door, naked and nameless . They would make love in hostels, bars, emptied market squares, along the glistening river bank, beneath rows of grey washing, in rotting patches of potatoes, laughing.

"I forgot to ask... Why did you come back to me?"

"I gave you two pairs of tickets for the theatre, did I not?"

"... you did, didn't you?" She chuckled softly, choking on the splintered laughter, broken laughter. "You're a bad man."

They made love in the theatre too. They haunted the galleries, invisible from the world, never seen, never heard, such bizarre spirits they were – not a care in the world, least not for humanity. Once, lost backstage, they loved in a costume trunk, wrapped in swathes of gaudy colours, netted fabric, tied in ropes of pearls...

"Tell me how it was this night

That I sleeping here was found

With these mortals on the ground..."

They were sat on the great stage itself, bordered by thick columns reaching to lofty skies. But it was now naked and bare, its delicately painted scenery ripped away from the walls.

"So said Titania, once lost in an illusion. Or flimsy hedonistic fancy, say some – I never paid much attention to comedies. Faeries too – they're merely myths, aren't they? Such trite and banal things, so _piteous_... so insignificant..."

He trailed off. There was a gentle pause.

"What _is _reality?" she asked, suddenly.

He gave her a look.

"Reality is a farce."

It was overtly cynical, overtly simplistic – overtly childish, especially for Murtagh, pedantic Murtagh, so tedious about every nuance of what he bothered to consider worthy. It was blunt and crude and not want Arya wanted at all.

A pause.

"I wanted something more optimistic."

"You think far too highly of me," he snorted, his eyes narrowing to slits carved by daggers. "Don't expect of me."

"I don't." She glared at him. Expectation was something her _mother_ did.

"Good."

There was a long sigh, as if he was frustrated by his own words.

"Reality..." he said, slowly, trying to justify himself, "... well, it's a mockery of all we strive for. Fate has no real rhyme or reason, yet we claim ourselves the masters of it – if God does exist, his name is Lucifer, and by god he is a devil. If he doesn't... really, it all boils down to us leaving our little boxes each day to work joylessly, and retiring to our little boxes at night. And then doing it again. And again. And again. Repeat as necessary. Die after sixty years."

"Some people don't have little boxes."

"Which makes it all the more tragic. It's a 'choice' between misery and boredom."

"They don't _choose_."

"Exactly. Don't you know that yourself?" He eyed her directly now, pinning his gaze down into her. "You willingly _left_ utopia. You were _bored_. That's why you're here now – isn't it?"

Her hands were quaking, slimed with sweat, quaking, white as flimsy moth wings, quaking. She stood up, arching, her head shaking, shaking, left and right.

Something was wrong. (The question. The question was wrong.)

"No... n-no, that's not it."

"Malena? Is there something the matter?"

"No."

"There is, isn't there?" he said, nodding knowingly as he rose to his feet. He loomed over her – for he was _tall_ for a human, just _like his father –_

"No."

"Don't play the fool. This isn't a game and I'm certaintly no fool." He stepped closer to her, his moonlight shadow eclipsing her form. "Why _are _you here, Malena? Why _haven't_ you run away yet?"

The shadows seemed to shift then – shudder. And his face – his face seemed to shudder, to blacken, grow sinister and grey. There was something – something, a thing, she couldn't quite... no, she couldn't make it out, darting, spinning, from corner to corner, but she could hear it breathing, rough, ragged, husky breaths, parched, thirsty breaths – and the stench. It stank of rotting, it stank of blood, it stank of _riches._

The moon was red that night.

"D-don't ask that, please don't ask that –you'll ruin it, you always do –"

"You're running away. You are. You're running away." He grabbed her face, and hissed: "_Aren't you?_"

"I'm not – _I'm not._ Why do you have to question _everything?_" She lashed back at him, shunting him aside with her hands, throwing him straight to the ground. She could beat him, after all. She was the elf, and he was the human, and she could beat him to a withering pulp, a screaming, bleeding, broken corpse of a man with the bat of an eyelid... her quivering fingers hand formed huge quivering fists. She _could_ beat him. She _could_.

But she wouldn't.

"Oh, _fuck_ you! _Fuck_ you so much!"

And all the while he was staring at her, all the while his gaze had not fluttered, flinched – he did not move.

"Spoken like a true princess."

_Princess? _The thought slammed into her, crashing. And she began to panic. _Oh god oh god oh god he's going to get me he's oging to get me he's going to –_ She looked up at him.

He was _smirking._

"What the fuck do you mean?" she screamed.

"You're so adorable when you're pissed off," he said, laughing now, laughing loudly and giddily, his voice wheezing and spinning wildly off into the midnight sky. "And you I know I _love_ it when you swear. It's _wonderful._"

"You're right. This is a farce." And she was livid. She was so, so, so... angry.

"Indeed, this is a farce – you're catching on quickly, Princess Arya – "

"_Don't call me that!" _she screeched.

She let herself go wild at him then. She threw herself at him, with swinging, crazed punches, with spinning blows, launching at him and pummelling him to the ground, ripping at him, ripping at him with claws – but he was quick, and grabbed her crying, her wailing, her frenzied form and tussled her over, seizing her flailing wrists and screaming with her, nailing her down – but she wanted him back, she _wanted _him, she ravaged and span and howled like a rabid dog, bearing its fangs, bearing blood, red, oh such a beautiful, vivid, _Malena_ red, as she ripped his shirt open – and he was still laughing, still laughing manically, thrilled by her, thrilled by her monstrosity – and she was cackling, cackling and crying as her hands moved along his body – and he forced his mouth on hers, rammed it, it horrible kiss, a raging kiss, a frenzied kiss – it was not romantic at all. Underneath the beckoning of the blood moon, everything was red and black; the world was lacquered in oil and fine wine.

They were so predictable. And neither of them cared.

"We could have started a dynasty," he said to her, his voice still lost in a frantic muttering, once the raging storm had passed, once their blaze had razed the land to ashes. "We could have. You and I. If it were peacetime, if this irritating _war_ was a mere dream – you would be a princess, and I would be a prince. And we could marry – don't make that face, I'm not suggesting _anything_. But say we did. We would have brought two great nations together, and we could have brought about the greatest era of history this world would ever bear witness to, you and I. No magic involved. Just you and I..."

"That probably wouldn't have happened," she said doubtfully.

"No. But it's nice to dream... even _I _have to dream of something..."

"It's rather ironic," she said, thinking. "Or... I _think_ it's ironic. Irony... is a _human_ invention – I still don't completely understand it –"

He was chuckling, chuckling in the most endearing way. "You're right, Arya."

"Don't call me that."

"Fine."

She glared at him in response.

"Okay – okay. Sorry, _Malena._"

She sighed, and sat up, the mad, blood-bathed moonlight caressing her bare shoulders. They were still stick-like, still contorted and starved and empty, as they had been the first day she had found him. Even in moonlight's mystique, she was ugly. She glared up at the spoiled moon, at its lost purity, its marring, and felt only disgust. She was above being rebellious now. She was above inadvertently ruining people's lives – inadvertently dragging them out on childish adventures in the 'real world' and getting everyone killed and tortured and burnt at the stake and having their families hunted down and their skins ripped off and being eaten by cannibals.

If she chose to destroy people, it was now a choice.

She sat in silence for several moments.

"Murtagh," she said, softly, the syllables long and languishing, the name dripping off her tongue.

"Malena?"

"If reality is all but a strange dream... then what are dreams made of?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I'll let ya think about that one. Tension is off, but trying to weave tension and dialogue together is difficult. If I throw in a huge block of prose between two pieces of dialogue which previously didn't have a break, the original question is forgotten and the response is strange, and it's all messy. It's all about trying not to stop/start too much and trying to keep the flow going. I'm getting fed up of Murtagh/Arya now, aren't you? Luckily, there's an Arya chapter next with her on her own. Yay! Then... I don't know what. Possibly a Galbatorix chapter (which I adore writing), or some more solo-Arya chapters. Murtagh/Arya have a fascinating dynamic, in that there's this really obsessive and pyscho element to what could have otherwise been a perfectly healthy relationship. It's not coming off as well as I hoped it would, which is probably the frustrating part, as these two characters are both very lonely and very broken... I think that desperation could come off better.


	27. The Branding

I: The Branding

* * *

><p>Light cracked through the window at dawn. It struck the lovers harshly, particularly the <em>female, <em>the _elf_ – her weak, fragile fingers, they fluttered like a moth's feathery wings stuck by the light. She sat upwards in an instant; the lovers' sleeping embrace shattered.

She supposed they were lovers now. Lovers. Luh-vers. Luuuh-vers. It sounded silly if she said it that way. She tried to shrug the term – _lovers lovers lovers lovers_ – off with a casual indifference – _trite foolish banal asinine_ – but the weight of them crashed onto her shoulders, pulling her downwards. They were _lovers. _She hadn't _intended _to be his lover, his mistress, (his whore, his _whore_) – but it had happened. Somehow. Some cruel fate, some sly star, a web of puppet strings had hoisted her to him. She was powerless, she was weak, she so _human_ in his grasp – oh, and how he _had_ rescued her from that powerlessness with his embrace, how he had protected her from the world, in the cruellest way.

He should have killed her when he had the chance. That's what kind lovers do.

_Kind lovers._

She blocked the phrase out of her memory entirely. It was a mockery. Arya did not like being mocked. She did not know whether to laugh or not, or whether crying would be more suitable, or whether to say nothing at all. She often did the latter.

She rose from their bed, noiselessly, and left the room. She did not look at him – he was sleeping, and that was something which only mere mortals did. The thought of Murtagh sleeping as she did was disturbing. As she wandered into the reception, a delicate chiming clock chirped four times inwardly. Chirp chirp chirp chirp. One for each step as she walked out of Murtagh's quarters, into the world, the gritty, grime-stained _real_ world.

Except she didn't do that. She was stopped by the music.

_Allegro, con brio._

Its swirling, dancing song encircled her, the _pizzicato_ strings bounding around her, chuckling woodwind's sweet trilling drawing her, pulling her towards the door of Murtagh's study. It grew, _poco a poco,_ larger, louder, more intense, as it sucked her into its grand crescendo, as her fingers encircled the doorknob and twisted it, slowly, slowly –

_Pianissimo._

The world was quiet. The large window framed in his study lay perched open; a gentle breeze blew, bringing in the scent of grassy dew drops and hanging bougainvillea from the grand, genteel city estates still lost in slumber. Arya's eyes swivelled upwards.

_Sforzando!_

Thrown casually over the window hook, was Murtagh's crystal, his 'source of all power', always locked safely out of reach from sneaky elfin hands – yet here it swung in the wind, glittering in the fragments of dawn. The light flickered like stardust, like the sweetest dreams – and she was magnetised to it, drawn to it, her body lurching forward, her fingers outstretched to the _light_ –

It slipped off the hook into the street below.

Arya dashed out of the study, slamming the door, launching like a torpedo through the hall and the parlour and the second reception room through to the green room and onto to the balcony –

It was there. She could see the faint glittering, subdued in the sunlight, as it was pronged between the coiled iron railings, ensnared in the black metal. _Thank god._ Arya did not believe in god and never had done, but she still thanked him nevertheless.

She reached out, carefully, hesitatingly, this time, along the ornate, vine-swept balcony, she reached for the fading light, edging along, closer, and closer, and _closer_ – she wanted it, she did not know why or what or where but something _unhuman_ in her _wanted_ – but further and further and further, the sparkle dying, the flame snuffed, alone – and it was gone.

The crystal wasn't there.

A wild, forlorn cry escaped her mouth before she slammed it shut, hushing the sleeping world. And then she panicked and spun around and ran back into the quarters proper.

It was there again.

This time haunting in the depths of the green room; it lit up the shadowy space, usually hidden under dust-coated sheets, with empty cases and empty boxes laid with their jaws aching for empty promises; it flickered and flamed beneath the crumbling, scabbing frills of Rossetti-era architecture –fifty years before Arya's time – the trimmings lit up gold and green once more; they were swirling, lofty skeleton of a magnificent beast, extinct forevermore.

Arya walked towards it; it disappeared.

Then it flickered on into the third atrium; it disappeared.

Then on into the games room. It danced across the chess-table, the lone feature of the room, bounding across red square to black, moving knight to B4 and queen to K9 and Murtagh's white bishop to checkmate Arya's black king for the fourth time that week – always the same colours, always him as the white guy, as to avoid 'irritating overwrought pseudo-symbolism' – he insisted, and when she lost she swore like a soldier 'fuck fuck fuck' which Murtagh found quaint and _wonderful_ and he consequently followed her instructions – the light moved on.

It moved to a room she did not recognise – full of broken mirrors and ornate, old-fashioned portrait frames, empty, littered across the floor as an artwork itself, ruined by the crumbling dust; she followed it, she followed the light.

It jumped to long, cavernous hall, filling up the vivid midnight blue with fire; it disappeared with the breaking morning sun.

She followed it another room, laced with the scent of roses, roses bold and blue...

And then another room - .

And then another.

And then another. And then another; and then another. And then another endless kalidescope of doors and walls and ceilings and peeling paint and crumbling trimmings – she followed it as it bounced erratically, from strange corner to eccentric pocket, from one shadow to the next, twisting, slithering, crumbling shade, as the jumbling, frantic music darted across the strings, from note to note, pulling her here and there and where – she followed it, dutifully, the music, the trembling music, the lost music that she could almost, barely, recognise, beating like her quivering, quaking, quick little heart – she did not know where she was, following staircases up and round, opening doors and windows and floors and falling, falling, those trembling scales and arpeggios over and over and over –

The light died.

She wasn't – strangely – worried this time. She could almost laugh, a high and tinkling faerie laugh, dreamlike, wistful, and completely ruthless. She didn't care. She didn't care if she'd lost the crystal – no, it was never a _crystal_, but stronger, greater, more _magical,_ more _musical _–

She hit herself. Several times. With a fist. She had to resist the urge to pummel her head into the wall. And to crush it between the brickwork. And to smash her skull into melodramatic smithereens oozing in blood onto the floor as she started screaming –

She was afraid. She did not know why. She was standing in a library, after all.

Arya had no idea how she had came to be standing in a library. It just happened.

It was not like any of the rooms Murtagh used – busy, bustling, full of paper and pieces and stacks of books and ornaments and shrugs and noisy and cramped. It was wide. Empty. And quiet – eerily quiet, with strips of daylight floating in through the tall, thin windows, that Arya had not seen the style of on the exterior of any Uru'baenite building. She could not even here the shuffling tick of a clock. The room was timeless.

And for a library, it did not seem to belong to Murtagh – for whom subjects of rigour, of medicine and science and philosophy and politics and classical literature, had their volumes dotted about and spilling about with their pages fluttering madly everywhere, brimming pages beginning to yellow, covered in tea and biscuit crumbs – they belong to the topsy-turvy world of an indecisive bumbling scholar, the man who Murtagh desperately wanted to be.

But this library, the books were placed firmly into their positions, and their covers lined with dust. Their pages were pale. They had not seen the light much. And every single book was about two subjects: music and magic.

Arya walked between the vast bookcases. Everything was identical, perfect, precisely and fussily correct.

It was so _elfin. _It unnerved her.

Yet the occasional portraits that masked the blank walls were all of humans. Different ages, different genders, different angles and different shapes, yet always soft, aging pallets – yellow ochre, silver-brown, a dwindling baby blue, gentle grey. Each boy or girl or woman or man had pale – almost pallid – skin, jagged eyes, a refined and slender nose, and thin wispy mouth, and hair black as storm clouds. Again, there was something odd – almost _elfin_ – she despised it – about them, something refined, something lost and wistful... yet not quite perfect.

_Family, _she realised.

She moved towards the centre of the library. There was the only semblance of activity – a table, with a chair left untucked, and a battered book left open, covered in unkempt scribblings. The handwriting she did not recognise – she could barely read the sprawling words that curled across the page, but the book – she did, vaguely, recognise that moulding green binding, and thin, melting pages.

_Tales of the Western Seas: Murtagh the Pirate Lord._

"Get out," a voice spat.

Arya froze. The book slipped through her frigid fingers and slammed onto the floor.

"Get out!"

A clang of metal could be heard, ringing. Something hot and hard hit her back – something that made her yelp with pain. She span around, frantically, eyes stretched wide.

"You're not supposed to be here. You're not supposed to be here at all."

It was the boy. It was boy she had seen on the first day – the boy with sandy soft waves of hair, and eyes as large as the sinking seas. The boy that had stood there smiling as the roots seized her, pulling her down, dragging her all the way to Uru'baen. But his face was solemn now, seized by the incoming storms, shaken and thrown.

"Who... Who _are _you?" she asked.

He did not respond to the question.

"Your _kind _are not allowed here, Miss _elf_," he muttered, forcedly, not kindly at all.

"What – what – I don't... I'm not..."

"Go." His voice was hard as iron, brittle, shaking in the wind, shaking – "Go!" he screamed, "Go! Go and leave! Leave – leave, you sumptuous siren, you heinous snake, you _beast_!"

He raised his fist in the air, and swung it down, a wave of magic – wordless magic, old and ancient, magic proper, magic she had never witnessed – and it struck her again, fiery, hot, piercing, melting. She sunk to her knees, crying out again.

"I... I'm not a _beast_ – "

"You fool – you _flatter_ yourself, Miss elf – something your _kind_ like to do – but you don't. You and I – we are _alike_–"

"... alike? But you don't _know_ me – "

"I watch you – I watch you –"

"Then you know – how did I get here?"

"God knows," he muttered, heaving his fist up into the air, shaking his head fearfully. "Neither of us is meant to be here. _Neither._"

She screamed again, scrambling to her feet, her fingers gnawing into the desk.

"You won't go, will you?" he asked, his face twisted into a demonic smile.

She shook her head, her face now covered in hot, pulsing streaks of red.

"Tell me," she mumbled weakly. "What _is_ this place?"

"I don't know. I'm not supposed to know - I'm not one of _them_. And neither are you, _you_ – "

"I _want_ to know."

A swing of the fist. A fierce sizzling. A broken scream.

"We don't always get what we want, Miss elf," he stated sadly, raising his fist again. "We were not built to know, nor to cope with knowing – "

"_What_ are you?"

He stopped.

"Nothing," he replied, utterly blankly. The tone he spoke that single word – it was flat. It had no music. It was soulless.

"Do you not have a name?"

"No." The single syllable was spoken in the same straining voice.

It was the most desolate sound in the world.

The fist swung down again.

"Please – god _please_, miss elf – stop asking _questions. _You _must go. _You _need_ to go. You _cannot_ be here – you're not _supposed_ – "

She got up and ran. Her vision was clouded as she threw herself out of the library and through endless stairs, to the bottom of the world – she could only see pentacles, ragged, burning, pentacles branded into her mind.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: It's blondie! We haven't seen the blond kid since chapter six, but he wasn't lost. Just hiding. I'm actually really happy with this chapter. It's much more WTF than recent stuff and reminds me of my first few chapters - but I think I balance it well.

**782:** That review made my day :)

Thanks for reading, guys!


	28. The Black Hand

II: The Black Hand

_"Call it Nature, Fate, Fortune; all these are names of the one and selfsame God." - Seneca._

* * *

><p>"Malena," his voice crooned. She was sobbing into his shoulder. Painfully. Every broken cry was a stab. A shudder.<p>

"I- I – the pentacles – _pentacles – _"

But he shushed her. "Malena... Malena... Malena... oh god, Malena." He laughed, even, holding her, cradling her, in his endless arms, eternally, she drowned in those liquid arms, in his honeyed skin, coughing and screaming, in her tears and in his arms.

He was her world, and her world loved her. That was enough to make her cry.

* * *

><p>No. That didn't happen.<p>

Murtagh was too interesting to do that. And too cruel.

He simply wasn't there.

She didn't even touch the pristine note pressed neatly on the demure side table of his frilly, ostentatious parlour. His square, squashed words weren't going to say anything original. He had gone. He'd be gone for a week. He wouldn't tell her where he was, what he was doing, how many family members of hers she was killing – not like she cared.

(Because Arya was a horrible person. Because Arya didn't know how to care.)

She did not care. No matter what _he_ said, _she _did not care. If she did, the guilt – the horrifying, the disgusting, the heart-wrecking _guilt – _it would murder her. It would murder her like she had murdered human children. It would be horrifying and no one would laugh.

(No one would mourn her.)

_Not even him._

The green, tatty copy of the book – the book that was the same as Murtagh's, the book that she had _stolen_ from the library – dripped out of her fingers. It fell to the floor.

Arya walked slowly and steadily out of the room. She was looking for a knife.

* * *

><p>"Let me ask you this one thing, as grown men may do, with honesty. After all, <em>honestly<em> speaking _–_ well, honestly _speaking –_ 'tis a virtue I feel the world has entirely forgotten, has it not?"

The King and the servant were standing side by side. The former was leant over the edge of the ornate stone balcony, head flitting side to side with his jabbering, arms spread widely out at the billowing horizon: the city of Uru'baen. The Winter Palace was famed for its labyrinthine corridors, which coiled and twisted up to its second feature – its breathtaking views. A sultry evening had set on the city, colouring the colossal, vulgar columns of the New Imperial quarter – a fashionable haunt of white-faced aristocrats – red and yellow and orange, dusky blue, dark purple and smouldering brown. The view was masked by the rumbling of the city, and the desert haze – only plumes of smoke in the distance could be clearly marked – and yes, a few little flickers of flames, dancing. Murtagh presumed this was the weekly book burnings, or perhaps maybe a few rebel informants being burnt at the stake – ordinary business in a medieval metropolis.

"Or, perhaps," he murmured wistfully, "it never knew it in the first place. Perhaps, as you might say: it's all a _farce_. It's a very dismissive and simple solution, do you not think? Almost _childish._ Ah, Murtagh, you frown –"

The servant, in contrast to the King, was still. His heavy face was hidden by shadow.

"Always the morose one, always preferring to drown in sorrow, than swim..." the King muttered darkly. He shook his head. "But I digress – I often do that, don't I? But I was meaning to ask you... Murtagh, are you sure you're not somewhat distracted? You don't seem... wholly _you_."

"No sire." The words were cut-throat, curt.

The King laughed, almost wistfully, at a joke that Murtagh could never, and would never comprehend. Smirking, he continued: "Say Murtagh, do you believe in fate?"

"Excuse me sire?"

"That actions are pre-determined, that rebellion and hostility to it is worthless, and will only end in ruin? That something – some god, some force, _something_ above our control is making the world spin?"

Murtagh stared at him blankly.

"Oh god, don't be so bloody insolent," the King snapped. "You live and _breathe_ this... _philosophic_ _stuff_. I'm asking you a fair question. Just answer it."

"I – sire – " Murtagh shook his head. "I do sire."

"Oh?"

"Anecdotal evidence suggests it. And personal experience," the younger man grumbled. "Causation. Cause leads to effect. There has to be reason for our actions. And since so _many_ of our actions are direly illogical, stupid and utterly _suicidal – _especially in a time of _war_ – I can only think that there's something else guiding them. And if not – and if our actions are just result of random occurrences, then we're slaves to chance as opposed to slaves to fate."

"You assume that everyone is an idiot except yourself."

"I'm hardly original to think that," Murtagh scoffed. "Besides, I _don't._"

"But you convinced you're right. Which must mean you think _something_ of yourself."

Murtagh was silent.

"You are _full _of contradictions Murtagh – it's puzzling. I don't understand how you can live – how you _want_ to live, how can you dismiss hope utterly, yet still _hunger..._ in what you see as a _dismal_ world, such a corrupt and senseless world, as a moral creature. I don't understand why you're still alive, really, I don't..."

He trailed off, looking suddenly outwards towards the horizon, lost in the entangled maze of sprawling wood and cement and straw...

"I digress!" He laughed shrilly, his head snapping suddenly back, his eyes, icicle daggers, met with Murtagh's – for a moment. "Isn't it nice that we can have these solemn little talks? Isn't it such a quaint, _familial_ thing? Morality."

A strained laugh, and he turned his head back towards the view. "Of course, I got bored with it decades ago. I'm an evil madman, _of course_ – it's required for the role! No, life is _far_ more entertaining when one rises above its ebb and flow – there's so much more... more..."

He pulled out – from nowhere, from magic – a set of papers, and threw them off into the balcony.

"Zest! That's the word. So refreshing," he chuckled to himself. "I spent three weeks writing that manuscript. Turned out terrible. Always do – now your father, he could _write_. Never sold anything though, not a scrap. Never understood why not. Then again, he _was_ a blue-blooded, true born aristocrat – he was taught to be _useless._"

Murtagh watched the papers plummet, in the dead, stagnant air, and fall out of sight, before speaking.

"Sire, was there any reason that you called me here?"

"Reason? What would you suppose?" he sniggered. "No, no! Don't tell me – yet another superfluous war mission?" Bellowing laughter. "Pish posh! How _banal_ do you believe me to honestly be?"

Murtagh was silent for a few, long moments. The urge the throw Galbatorix off the balcony was overwhelming.

"I don't understand you, sire."

"You're not meant to, Morzansson."

* * *

><p>"Arya, what are you doing?"<p>

"Killing myself."

The other elf sat still in the leafy grove, tucked away in an obscure corner of the map, watching her with a hard gaze. Arya continued to slowly twine the leaves with her raw, rubbing fingers, into rope.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything Faolin?" she said with a cheery laugh. "Aren't I most disgraceful? This is unlike you – unlike you not to _comment_ on my misdeeds."

He continued to watch her, busying away under the basking moonlight.

"You never warn me about them. You never tell me to stop – don't you?"

"The world will not always cater for you, Miss Arya."

"Oh, fuck the world!" she cackled, at his internal wincing of that oh-so-delightful f-word. "It's so odious. So _boring._ Why do you think I'm trying to kill myself?"

Her fingers moved more quickly, more rapidly, twining the rope at a sudden rate. _Elfish _speed.

"Please Arya – please – "

"It's such a shame don't you think? I'll never see a winter's day – "

"Arya – "

"I do often wonder, why do we always have to travel during the Summer? Never in the Autumn, never in the winter, never in the cold, in the _snow_ – "

"We'd starve. There's nothing to forage in the Winter."

"Oh, fools we are," she smiled, wolfishly. "We could _hunt._"

"You are aware that's forbidden."

"That's silly," she said coyly. "What kind of free society are we if we don't let people make choices?"

"A just one. Don't – don't play the fool. Arya, what _are_ you doing?"

She stood up. The stinking leather she chose to wrap her skeletal, wraith-like bones – the complete opposite to the voluptuous shape of her mother – barely clung to her skin. The faded silk beneath was pushed as far back as it could. She was almost – almost naked.

"I twine this rope with these leaves. I make a noose –" She mimed it with her fingers. "Like this. I hang it from – " she prodded a slither of a silvery trunk beside her. "_This_ tree. On _that _branch _there_ – " she pointed to the sprawling, jagged shadow above her. "I climb up the tree, put the noose over the branch, and let myself drop. Dead princess."

He looked up at her, his face crumpling.

"I don't... you were always so cheerful –"

"Faolin. I have tried to kill myself at least once a year since I turned twenty. This is what I am. But," she paused. She sauntered towards him, slowly, a stalking shadow of the night, she was, carefully, drawing back the curtain of his silver hair, and whispered sweetly into his ear. "You could stop me, you know. Just one word, Faolin. You know what it is."

He glared.

"I am your companion. I am not to play games with you, Arya. I refuse to touch you."

"Oh, oh, but I love a good _old-fashioned_ game! A good game of _watch the Princess kill herself,_" she spat, derisively."You never _do_ anything! You never tell me yes or no! You only ever nod and watch – "

"Arya, you're being childish."

"I've _always_ been childish! I'm a seventy year old child! If I was _mortal_ – I'd be _dead!_"

"Princess, you're shrieking – "

"And I shall shriek! Until _you_ tell me to stop, I shall shriek!"

"And how will you last more than six months in the Varden if you shriek like a child?"

"That's all they ever do at the Varden, isn't it? Shriek! Tell themselves that they're right, that they're _logical_ to be right – oh, I can do that. Give me ten years, and I can do the same of the Varden – I'll be so fanatic, I'll drive myself mad – "

"Stop! Stop! Stop! Arya – stop!"

He leapt up and seized her, seized the rope, as she struggled against him, struggling –

"No! No!"

She ripped away from him, and threw herself on the floor. Her fingers were bleeding from the force, the blood dripping onto the black floor.

She was silent, for a while.

The rustle of papery leaves, the parched skin of the woods, could be heard.

"I'm not mad. I'm not – I'm _not_. I just hear things sometimes. I'm – I'm not like Malena: I'm not _insane_ – "

Faolin sat down, suddenly, in a heap. He didn't look He buried his head in his hands at the mention of his half-sister.

He wept.

Not immediately. She couldn't tell when he started – he did it silently. It crept on her, like the ivy bristling against the trees, suffocating them with leaves... it crept slowly.

It was an incredibly ungraceful action, and Arya loved him for it.

* * *

><p>She dropped the knife.<p>

Something was wrong.

Her breathing was hoarse, sudden, shallow, her chest beating in and out, her heart croaking. She shook her head. Nothing was wrong. No, her skinny shoulders, cramped, grating against the sides of the dust-ridden closet, were not being crushed, being beaten, being broken, by the impounding walls that were shrinking in on her and closing in on her and pushing her to nothing –

She shook her head again. No, it really _was_ nothing.

Arya seized her wrist. She flicked off a stray ladybird that was stumbling over her skin. She hadn't seen a ladybird in _years_ – or at least, since she last visited Ellesmera, which seemed long, long ago... What _was_ it doing in Uru'baen? There was some imported greenery, even some parched elfin trees in the leafier suburbs, but it was a desert town.

She turned over her wrist. The black-spotted creature was still clinging to her arm.

"Sorry," she whispered, as she flung it off again. She liked ladybirds – like poppies, they just seemed very friendly. Unassuming. Simple. Arya liked that.

It was things like that which made her want to live.

_Stupid Arya. Stupid Malena. _She chuckled, softly.

She stood up slowly – and threw open the door of the closet. She stumbled out. The light strained her eyes. When did it become mid-day? Wasn't it morning a few moments ago – the crack of dawn? She shuddered.

Then she noticed her left arm.

It was common knowledge – or at least, it was common among elves – that an elf did not know what their actual appearance like. They masked every blemish and every mark instantly. So much so that not one could actually recall what their faces _did_ look like. For all Arya knew, elves could be hulking, waddling great brutes, much like Urguls – or _worse –_ beneath their soft, pale skins. Some had theorised this could be seen _very_ briefly seen whilst using healing magic, although most elfin scientists dismissed this as lacking in evidence, and an old wives' tale. Or young wives. There was no such thing as a real 'old' elf. It was a fairy tale. It was to be dismissed, like so many other things.

Then why was her arm covered in black markings?

Black, abrasive markings, scratchings on chalk board, screaming scrawlings, written all over her skin, her pale skin, marred, marred by the black, spat in some unfathomable ancient tongue which she could not understand – they stung her arms.

She touched them.

They did not go away.

She ripped up her sleeve. They crawled upwards suddenly, dashing towards the white – she pulled her sleeve down. She didn't want to see it. It was evil. It was horrible. It was _monstrous, monstrous, _those marks – they could only mark a monster. Or maybe a monster's monster. Or maybe a monster's monster's monster. She rubbed at her wrist fiercely – rubbed at his, ripped at it, her broken, bitten nails _clawing_ at them – it did not go away. They were still there – scrabbling, shrieking, struggling, pitiful scars, brutally signed into her skin, beaten and burnt, she could hear them scream, she could hear their blackened voices, wailing, wailing for their homes –

She shut her eyes.

She opened them.

They had gone. Good. She sighed. She unclenched her fingers.

On her left palm, one black mark was left. It was burnt into her skin. It was the shape of a pentacle.

_Oh God. Oh God. Oh god oh god oh god – _

She was going to be sick. She grabbed a bucket, her whitened knuckles chattering. Her stomach was tumbling – tumbling; and then the world started to tumble too, dizzyingly, and her vision started to shake and shiver, as her hand – her _black hand_ did. The world painted itself black, and she fell the floor.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I see why writers use the 'pass out' card all the time now. It is _so_ convenient you wouldn't understand _how_. Don't expect many updates this November. I am busy with essays and coursework and admissions tests. December will be an equally tough month. January is looking to be the next real slot of free time! I hoped to be pumping out several chapters this week, but I've been procrastinating. It's horrible. I got through it only with a huge dosage of 'ein astronaut' - check him out on youtube, if you wish, he's amazingly talented and awesome. To be honest, I hated writing this chapter. It needed to be written, but _urgh_. I did it in a day - mind you, I've written twice as much in an empty day before. But I _did_ plan out the entire series yesterday, meaning we only have eighteen chapters left people! Next chapter is fun, trust me.

Also yes, 'honeyed arms'. Murtagh is not white. He's mildly coffee-coloured - mixed race. Thought I'd point that out (I might have described him as being pale early on when I was still unsure of this story's direction - if so, forgive me). Uru'baen is actually a pretty racist city, despite - or perhaps because of - having a larger mixed race population than usual (white people breeding with black desert natives - most Uru'baenites aren't wholly Caucasian) although I've never got round to being able to point that out either. The closer a town's proximity to the desert, generally the darker the skin colour. Uru'baen, being the capital and also having lots of immigrants, is weirdly multi-racial for a medieval city.

As always, thanks for reading :)


	29. Solo

III: Solo

_"By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos and low and high drums."_ _- The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald_

* * *

><p>She woke up slowly. Not, then, as what would be expected of an unconscious elf; she woke, glossy-eyed, grey-faced, still – stumbling – grasping at her scalp whilst she was whimpering, softly in some lost, forlorn pain, in a forgotten corner of a grey prison in Gi'lead –<p>

_No_.

That did not happen.

She instead woke up in a bedroom. An _exquisite_ bedroom. A bedroom draped with smooth satin sheets from Surda, adorned with with snow-kissed furs tossed on the mahogany floors, and lavished with intricate tapestries of gallant knights and splendid queens spun in spider's silk, lost in entangled summery dreams...and in the corner of her eye, she could see silver drapes twirling in the wind... fluttering...

She had been here before. She leapt from the bed, and treaded the floors, paced each side of the room, fingers shifting slowly, tangling themselves into knots. This... this _couldn't_ be it? This couldn't be the room that she had stayed in, for the eternal night, the first night in Uru'baen, clutched away only Murtagh, stolen by Murtagh's arms – could it?

She hoped not. She hoped – oh how she _hoped_ not – she shook, she shook. No, no, and no. She had not one scrap of _evidence_ – but what _use_ is evidence, _Arya?_ Her stomach was boiling, stirring, stewing, concocting some vile remedy to her sickness – no, she would have none of it.

(She secretly hoped it was true so that she scream wildly and throw herself out of the window smashing into the pavement and breaking everything that was already broken – )

_I'm having none of this. None._

(Or maybe – maybe Murtagh – yes – Murtagh would catch her, Murtagh _would_, he'd grasp her in his hands, dripping, her oozing body, lap her up in his arms and devour her and rip her to shreds_ bite by bite – _)

_Malena, what are you thinking?_

She didn't know. Slowly, she slunk across the room. She pushed the drapes aside with fluttering fingers, and pushed open the stiff window that she was certain she had pushed before.

No, she was right. Or wrong. She was not in Uru'baen anymore.

It was far stranger than that.

Not that Arya would have known. The town below, she had not seen before. The winding yellow-brick buildings below, lined with pungent flowers, violets and thyme, that swept her upwards in their crystalline scents – meant nothing to her. The idyllic streets below her, alight in the twilight with paper lanterns, hung at each sturdy door frame that had stood for a thousand years yet – not a recollection. Yet there was something hauntingly, frightening familiar about the place. She could not move from where she was standing, fixed in the breeze. The smells, rich flavours, pigments of a painter's palette – she was mesmerised by it. She caught the waft crispy pastry and a fresh dollop of cream – she _could_ taste it, it watered in her mouth. Sultry spices, leafy herbs, fine wines grown five miles away, a catch of the fresh mountain breeze, and beyond that, a mere lingering taste, of salt, of distant seas... each were tied in neat packages, and she could flavour them all.

It was ten minutes before she stirred from the view. She then wondered: where exactly_ was _she? What was she here for?

And then, like clockwork, the music began.

_Allegro._

Did she even want to know? She span around, to face the music: the door to her room was wide open. And without question, she left it – to follow the music. To follow the swaying bows, fiddling up and down, pulling her, towards them. She span down the stairs, to find herself in a starlit courtyard – of some regal manor house of some kind, a city estate.

She moved onwards. Servants recognised her at her passing, dropped immediately – curtsying, bowing for Ma'am: but unlike the wan courtesy of the frigid elves, they _smiled_ as they did so. They smiled, so serenely, so graciously, so _peacefully – _no, she had never seen such peaceful smiles, in a world ravaged by eternal war and worry, the concept seemed daft. And she found, as she sauntered along, hungrily looking for the melody, she would smile back, absurdly.

_Is that happiness?_

She went on regardless, floating along gilded corridors, lined with wild and wistful scenes – through twirling arches, the gardens could be glimpsed. Here, surrounded by fickle thorns and ivy, lay the clutchings of Arcadian visions: that which blind artists of aspired to see, yet alone create, _maestroso, crescendo, meastroso!_ – and petals, too, blowing softly in the wind, blue –

_Arya?_

There was a brief silence.

A wilting statue stood in the centre of a courtyard. It looked like it was crying.

_Vivace con moto._

And suddenly she was pulled away, from wreath upon wreath of blue roses, into the straining music, the rigorous music, into the snarling brass and the hiss of the snares...

_Arya!_

The music lulled her up a marble staircase, her fingertips tracing the golden edges of the twirling banister, as she rised up and up and up...

"_Arya!"_

She stood at foot of two vast oak doors, heavy, thick, on the second floor. They were covered in scarred carvings of a language that she had never seen before; not of elegant, floating glyphs of the elves, but concrete and crude – older, certainly. It made her shiver.

But ... the music came from within – it _must_ do, it was _drawing _her here... pulling her, relentlessly..

She entered without looking back.

* * *

><p>The hero always survived. That was the rule. The hero would persevere until the story ended. Heroes survived. Heroes endured. And heroes <em>won<em>. Whether he (it was always a _he_ – another rule) _liked_ it or not – whether he had a _choice_, apart from a superficial illusion of one – that wasn't the question.

The healer stood at the exit to the empty room, watching. His steel fingers gripped the doorway. Hard.

A bloodcurdling _scream._

The hero was lying in the middle of the floor. Unconscious. And yet somehow he was screaming in pain –

_Where – where where where... where... where... _

He was shaking, shaking his head – _no no no no no no no –_ he could barely move except to shake, and – laughing. _Laughing._ laughing mechanically – broken laughing – a broken mechanism – was that him?

_There's nothing remotely funny about this, _muttered the healer, to his mind directly._ I don't know how you survived that fall_.

He did nothing.

_W-w-where is... she?_ The thought quivered as it escaped his mind.

_Not here –_

Another scream.

_You're going to have to block it out. Sorry._

Another scream.

_This is the only way._

Another scream.

_Block it out._

Another scream.

_Block it out._

Another –

_Block it – _

The screaming stopped. The hero was still.

* * *

><p>She entered during the second dance.<p>

The first thing she noticed was the colours. The elves always wore green to their balls – forest green or emerald green. No exceptions; no deviations. But these dancers – they moved in a thousand glittering colours, in all hues and shades, from warm amber to brilliant vermillion, to a dusky brown... They slid across the gleaming floor, in coloured masks, precariously – not elegantly, not gracefully, but _recklessly._ They threw each other across the dais, spinning around helplessly, tumbling into each other's arms, like broken puppets – puppets desperate, rabid, for some frenzied glimpse of life.

Entranced, she took a step forwards –

And she shrieked in _pain _–

She stepped back. It – the floor – was _excruciating_. Burning like a wildfire, roaring across the forest, seething and hot and hard and horrific – no, she shook her head, she was _imagining _this all, as she usually did. _Silly Malena._ She scratched her left hand. It felt like it had been burnt, for some inexplicable reason – no, it must be _nothing._ She laughed uneasily, slinking away from the door, nearly stumbling –

_Over a pair of slippers?_

Glass slippers. _How quaint, _she thought amusedly – it was the sort of thing _he_ would have remarked, wouldn't have he?They had been placed behind her. And she hadn't noticed. How _stupid _of her not to notice the fact that they were there all the time! She laughed feebly, as if she were truly _stupid_, whilst she clumsily tried to slip them on.

A perfect fit.

She swallowed nervously.

And so she took a step forward –

Nothing.

She exhaled, and moved into the wide, spacious ballroom.

The room was steady with a luxurious ease. Splendour flattered it, occasionally; its creamy velvet caressed the walls, now and again, with a scattering of diamond kisses. The heavy scent of dry wine, and long, idle chatter, permeated the air. Nobles floated from flock to flock, circling around the stage, with generous goblets twirled between their fingers.

Slowly, she began to move into the room, lingering on the edge.

" – So _she_ said, but then again, since when – "

" – Pack hunting makes terrible sport, I have decided – "

" – I doubt that they are to be trusted – "

" – I can't believe you would be so _common _– "

" – Oh no, I couldn't possibly – "

" – his use of perspective is so _rigorous_, his form precise; he is infinitely more talented than the likes Lippi, Botticelli and _Maurizio_ – "

" – The Master promises there will be an excellent showing – "

" – Drink needs more punch – "

She wasn't noticed at all. She stood still, and listened.

_Pianissimo. Crescendo: poco a poco_

"The second act is simply _atrocious, _don't you think?"

"Always so critical, Julius," snorted a second voice.

"Yes, Julius – I don't see why you cannot simply enjoy..." murmured a third.

_Mezzo Piano._

"So what if I can't? – And Igor, methinks the playwright is finally beginning to crack as I predicted. There's artistic slack, there's slovenly characterisation, all disorganised and horrifically chaotic – it's so _deliberate_ – it's simply _crude_."

"It's deliberately so – you said it yourself," noted the second, firmer voice. "He will surprise us. If he is being uncharacteristic, I believe that's wholly deliberate – never expect to expect with the Master, or you'll be lost before you know it. Besides, wasn't it _you _who once said beauty does bore the soul after far too much amazement?"

"I'm not so blasé – "

_Mezzo Forte._

Arya stumbled forwards – with a _clack –_

_Stupid slippers, _she thought, absently.

The flock suddenly snapped their heads towards her. Their faces were broken with sneers and grimaces. They looked as if they had just spotted _vermin_.

"Julius – you didn't... _hear_ that thing, did you?"

The shadows on their faces, cast by the upheld candles, seemed to twist, becoming more contorted –

"... no. You're imagining things, Caterina. You always do..."

_Forte._

"Julius – "

"It sounded like it was _whimpering –"_

_Fortissimo._

"Don't be so morbid –_"_

She bolted. She tore herself away and pushed and shoved and hurtled through the crowds – they _stared_ at her, she was sure, they must be – shifting eyes and haugty tones – _where was the exit? Where was the exit? Where was it – _

... _Ladies and Gentlemen, the third performance will_ _begin in five minutes..._

She was running – spinning – in circles – where was the exit? Had it disappeared? _Where was it? Where – _

... _Ladies and Gentlemen..._

" – They say that this will be his most definitive performance yet."

" Doubtful. How would he pull all of those convoluted plot elements together? All these loose ends? You're being overly optimistic again, Brom – "

_Sforzando! Sforzando! Sforzando!_

"_ARYA!"_

She ran. She ran. She ran.

"Besides, only a madman could pull this off – and even then – "

Again and again and again.

"_Arya! Arya – oh god, Arya, answer me – please, please please –"_

_Rallentando..._

"Shut up, Marty. You'll ruin the show."

* * *

><p>The door slammed behind him.<p>

Galbatorix, as he did most days – as he did, almost every day – was staring keenly outside the vaulted windows of his study, with a wistful expression trapped and squirming between his lips...

"Sire. I need to speak with you."

"Who _dares_ enter the realm of King Galbatorix without permission?" he muttered darkly, staying still.

_My, my, even by _my _standards – that was absolutely _dreadful.

The intruder was unperturbed.

"I have a bone to pick with you sire. Forgive the _cliché_ expression, but it's a matter of some urgency."

"You don't pick the bones here. No you don't. _No_, not at all. Ha ha! It is _I _who picks them, it is _I_ who rips them - Irip them _mercilessly_ from the throats of _my_ enemies – "

_Including myself._

A short silence reigned.

"Sire. Look." The man strode towards him, turning to stand directly opposing to the King. "I need to ask you something."

* * *

><p>The door slammed behind her.<p>

_What was that madness?_

The crisp night-time breeze didn't answer her question. It only howled.

She placed her fingertips on the balcony, staring absently upwards. The stars watched above steadily. Their silence made her feel distinctly nervous. She could still hear, just, a blurred echo of the vibrant noises of the ballroom, could still feel the heat of flashing colours and coiling mist, tilting, lost behind her...

Yet the enchanting melody that ran around her head, that _music_, had led her out here for some reason. Where the city was now cloaked by nightfall, and only her, alone, stood with the skies.

"The Starlight Symphony. His second work – airy, light, and frivolous."

_The midday sun brushed through the leaf-topped windows, shading the floors grey. A dainty girl was sat correctly in satin and ribbons. Her hands were hovering above polished ivory keys of an instrument – quivering slightly. There was no sound. _

"_It is not precise enough."_

_The floor creaked as the instructor paced the floor, each deliberate footstep, by each deliberate footstep._

"_The Starlight Symphony is not played by a thunder of drunken dragons. Arya –"_

_The girl stared vacantly at him._

"_Refusing to practice will get you nowhere." _

_The breeze shook the trees, the leaves bristling..._ and she shook too, seventy years later, shivering in a damp nightdress in the damp wind...

_...  
><em>

"The elves were always rather fond of it, I believe," a voice murmured in her ear. She turned, startled.

A man was stood beside her, his arms draped lazily over the balcony, gazing out at the black, lifeless expanse beyond.

"Do you like it?"

The bluntness of this question threw her.

"I don't understand what you mean..." She bit her lip suddenly, cutting her words. "Sir," she squeaked.

He turned to face her; his eyes latched to hers. He wore costume of an accomplished actor: the hero, she could presume – or was it the villain? She could hardly tell. It was a sudden black; it merged into the sky. Sometimes the beaded edging would catch dewdrops of light, light which shimmered as the wind blew, to remind her that he was actually there. Even his hair, his smoke-coloured ringlets, seemed to melt into the shadows... Only his face seemed _real,_ alight with a blazing gold mask, trimmed with proud feathers and streaks of fire... she tried to look away from it, and the strange, ubiquitous dark eyes that burned beneath...

"What's not to understand?" he chuckled, easily, a stray hand lifting up to pose a question. "Unless..." he paused, expression bemused. "You mean to tell me you've _never _heard of the piece?"

"No – no, I don't mean that at all." she stuttered, her fingers tracing awkward circles on the balcony edge. "It reminds me – "

"Reminds you of, perchance, of a time gone by?" he interjected, his thin lips grinning beneath the flames. "Of a graceful world, of world with mystery and wildness left, of a world now lost utterly in fantasy?"

"_Where is this?"_

_Each word hung, like a thick, weighty book, bound in stale leather, on the cramped bookshelves of the study. _

_A clock ticked. _

_Murtagh peered over from the corner of his book. The elf was sat cross-legged on the floor gazing intently at a painting hanging half-crooked on the wall._

"_Illirea." _

_The answer was efficient and prompt. In the same manner, he resumed reading._

_She gave him a look._

"_All right then," he said, knowingly, with a smirk. His eyes hadn't even left the page when he replied. _

"_I just – I don't remember it looking like this..." she muttered, wistfully._

_He jumped up from his desk and sat down next to her, his clunkier frame copying her exact pose – that of a lost little girl – except looking somewhat ridiculous. _

"_You lived there?"_

"_Oh... no. I haven't. I was born during the Fall."_

"_That must have been difficult, for an elf."_

_It wasn't a question, so she didn't answer it. It answered itself. _

"_You know, many often talk about how after Galbatorix started the Great Industrialisation, and how Uru'baen was never beautiful as it once was in 'the good old days'. Its the price one pays for economic progress. Whether it's a price too great..." he shrugged. "I couldn't say. But having read enough from the period, I know people said the exact things about Uru'baen a hundred years ago. And a hundred years before that. And a hundred years before that, too."_

_He gazed intently at the painting for a moment. Choking smog that swallowed the grey, ash-specked paint. It was clogged with tinned-roof slums and whirling mills._

"_Alagaesia used to be covered by raging wilderness and vast forests – but that was thousands of years ago. They've all been cut down now... so much so, that we look at rolling hills and valleys, at pleasant pastures green, and call it natural_._"_

"_Do you like it?"_

_He scoffed. "What do you think?"_

"_You hate it." Why did she even need to ask the question? _

_His eyes widened – and he tried to smile. He failed. His face – strained – it looked like he was in pain._

"_I hate it." _

_A silence._

"_Maybe..." he muttered to himself, considering, "Yes," he said, sure of himself – he turned towards her. "Maybe I can show you the North some day. It's inhabitable – and wild – and – beautiful." _

_Arya looked directly at Murtagh._

Arya looked directly at the stranger.

"Yes. It is familiar," she said, slowly. "The melody, especially, is startlingly familiar, actually." She glanced up at him. "_Maddeningly_ familiar."

"Madness isn't a synonym for _like_, Drottingu," he muttered, grinning coyly.

"What about _love?_"

The words sprung off her tongue – leapt off it, diving into distant seas before she could plunge after them.

"What would _you_ know about love?" he said with a snort. He stood up – slowly though, leisurely rising to his natural position. Standing up directly, he loomed over her. He was _tall_ for a human.

"I don't..." she shook her head fiercely. She felt her ice-cold cheeks burn with fire. Why were they hot? Why was her pulse hurtling forwards, pounding in her throat? Her fingers tightened into fierce little balls. _This is ridiculous._

"Nothing," she eventually finished, her teeth gritting together, the word spat.

"I am glad I invited you this evening, Drottingu."

He smiled – he always seemed to be smiling, in some way, _completely_ the opposite... she shook her head.

"_You_ invited me?"

"_Naturallement! _Of course I did. Who else do you think would? Don't tell me – _Galbatorix?_" he spat the last word, and broke into laughter. "There are darker, greater – older – villains out there. Ancient foes from across the seas. You'll see – eventually. But I am in no mood to talk of that now. No, I am the culprit of this. This is all my handiwork, I'm afraid."

"_You_ brought me here?"

"Did you think it was a hallucination? A _dream_? No, this is no mere _illusion. _This is far better. Welcome to the Summer Palace, Arya Drottingu; I _sincerely _hope you do enjoy your time here."

He twirled his hand, as matter of mock-courtesy, in the way the elves did. She resisted the urge to slap him.

(_Because part of her knew she wouldn't win... no, not against him...)_

"If you stay a bit longer, you'll have time to witness the Midnight Masque – the grand finale, the highlight of the night. It is truly divine. You'll _want_ to watch that – I assure you."

Arya stared at him.

"Who are you?"

"Wrong question, _Malena_," he said, chuckling. "Besides, I'm just an actor."

She didn't know whether he was lying or not.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Sorry for the long break. This chapter... took a long time to come together. I dabbled with several different openings before settling on this one. The tone was hard to pin down, and some of the descriptions... urgh, I'm getting bored with luxurious settings. Why didn't I set this story in the slums? I also wanted a chapter long enough to encompass the meeting of the masked stranger, hence the length. He's not my favourite character in the world either - but necessary. I also spent a day reading _Inheritance_ - I don't want to spoil it, but I feel like I've given Nasuada a bit of an unfair role considering what happened to her... honestly, probably some of the best scenes CP's written. You know why. I hated the rest of it, though - boring and unnecessary and the emotion/pacing was... urgh. Prosaic.

So many reviews! *makes heart sign with fingers*. I'm going to answer them all for once.

**Beta**: A kindred spirit, I see. They are delightful to write - I think most people have a drop of madness in them, though, which is probably why I enjoy writing so much. Murtagh's a case of that - he's probably the most normal on the outside of everyone I've written about.

**Saviikins**: It took me a moment, but I guessed. You are so totally awesome for actually reading this, by the way. Better than a certain ex-boyfriend I've been bugging for _months_ to have a look at this ._.

**Owltalon**: Glad you're still with me, and thanks for understanding.

**RB0027**: Ah, this review made my day. I think when I finish it, this will end up rubbish, but once I give it a huge polish, it could be good - it's sad I can't publish this though. I hope to be on the shelves one day - although I don't want to spend all of my life writing, I want to publish something, even if it's just _once_. So maybe you'll see my name somewhere, although it'll be a few years yet.

**EminemBitches:** Thanks :)

**Restrained Freedom**: You have it exactly. That's exactly what happened. Although the blond boy didn't give her the scar necessarily... that's a more complicated one.


	30. The Rightful Queen of the Winter Palace

IV: The Rightful Queen of the Winter Palace

_"What devil was't_  
><em> That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind?<em>  
><em> Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,<em>  
><em> Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,<em>  
><em> Or but a sickly part of one true sense<em>  
><em> Could not so mope."<em>

_- Hamlet to Gertrude, Act II Sc. IV, lines 77-81.  
><em>

* * *

><p>In retrospect, she would pin the blame entirely on being the wrong side of twenty. A stupid teenager. Not that there was a right side of twenty either. Spring may have burst into blossom, into scented petals, but those would rot in days. The maddening, feverish intoxication of virginal beauty, that which made men boys and boys babes – it withered in age. And a lone woman without beauty was nothing. A crone. A lonely crone. A lonely and <em>bitter<em> crone –

"Milady–"

She envied that, almost. _Almost_. Those 'married' women, so fanciful, so flighty, drifting on the scents of the seasons, esteemed in delicacy, entwined in lace, in luxury, in riches' desire. An empty head in exchange for a blooming bosom.

No. She didn't envy that part.

Those 'women', the courtly ladies, would drape their sumptuous shapes across the jittering, rickety arms of 'men'. Pah. They would cackle haughtily as they were swept away, for those wicked women had seen it all before, it far, _far_ too many times.

"Milady–"

Rather ugly, shrivelled things – she could barely understand why _anyone_ could be interested in them. Odious stench. Like half-eaten babies. Tasted disgusting. Absolutely _disgusting_.

"Milady–"

Tasted too salty. Like blood, actually – the blood that covered mens' hands, the blood they'd hastily tried to wipe away onto their quivering sleeves. They always tried to hide it. Badly.

"Milady–"

And that was why Nasuada was a virgin.

"What _is_ the bother, Jormundur, this time?" she half-asked, half-assed. Her faithful assistant – had she ever known an assistant that wasn't faithful and pandered to every need of hers? – opened his gawking, blustering, blubbering mouth to answer –

"It's everything, isn't it?" she snapped. "Everything's the bother."

Jormundur simply nodded gravely, tiredly, simply. He was tired, she was tired, and it was all so... messy. Irritating.

They were losing. They were losing everything. Well. Nasuada could have rolled her eyes if she cared. Because in all honestly – in all honesty – she _did_ care – about the Empire, _her_ Empire – but oh, dear god, how tiresome _it all was._ How repetitive, how tedious, how pointlessly masculine and deliberated it all was.

Perhaps that's why everyone seemed to pretend it wasn't going on at all. It was easier to forget it. To forget the long, drawn, thumping toll of funeral bells. The white blankets of corpses, row upon row upon row upon row. A familiar stench, a red stench, a bloody stench...

It scared her. It scared her – it was _sickening_.

In actuality, war made her rather sick. It was a vile, disgusting thing with far too many half-devoured corpses with ripped intestines squirming out of broken stomachs. Blood. She did not like blood. Too brutal. Too feral. Too gratuitously and pointlessly violent for the point of making a point about the point on the end of a sword.

How _male_. Never made a clean job of it either.

It had been exciting at first, actually. Being a man. Because if Nasuada wasn't a 'woman', what else could she be? Women died – women _always_ died; they were weak, pitiable creatures of the flesh. Women weren't made for working. And that was all Nasuada did.

She worked. She thought. She did things. All for that disgusting, that vile stench – _blood_. The riveting wails of the dead, the storming through the deserts, the burning, the pillaging – she would laugh and scream as the men did. It was _fun_.

Which made her as bad as a man, she could guess. Well. She never claimed to be _spotless_.

She tossed her head backwards, groaning. She rubbed her temples exaggeratedly. _Headache headache headache bloody bloody headache._ Slumping over the hardened arms of the wooden throne, her legs were thrown over the other side, hanging in a most unladylike manner that she would share in the company of no one. She yawned, before she realised Jormundr was still standing there. Rigidly.

"Milady–"

She was losing her touch. She was honestly losing her touch – had anyone ever seen her like that? Grumpy, tired, irritated – god, she couldn't honestly remember the last time she had ever felt _content_ – it was all too much, stress, dear god –

"Milady–"

"Oh, you're still here? Consider yourself dismissed Jormundr," she mumbled far too quickly, waving her hand.

"Mil–"

"Dismissed!"

He didn't even frown. He passed her a small, crumpled note, barely folded, and left.

She hadn't had a tactical meeting today. Nor yesterday. Nor the day before. She had cancelled them all, personally. There was absolutely no point, no meaning, no cause in having them. Absolutely none. She spent her time, bided it, muttering to herself instead, complaining about her headache, pacing her tent from end to end, hands tumbling, trying to ignore the flimsy echoes of wailing children, of bleeding, crying mothers, of men. Oh god, they were so _noisy_.

That was the problem.

They were losing.

Inevitably, things started going horribly wrong. Things always would go wrong and she was an idiot not to think they wouldn't. Arya had disappeared (Arya was as good as invisible anyway half the time – what did it matter, she had told herself, chuckling? Oh _har har Nasuada)_. Then the elves refused to move. Then dwarves began to squabble – when did that rabble ever _stop_ bickering, oh dear god, her patience, she nearly ripped it out of her skull and thrashed them side-to-side with it. Then the Surdan forces began to collapse after some clever Empire big-wigs started hacking away at their supply chains (legalised piracy – who had thought of that?). Then the southern front grinded to a halt. And then, of course, men started dying.

That was the most ridiculous statement she'd ever heard. The men are dying, Milady. The men are dying. _The men are dying. _Sarcasm-gasm. Isn't that all that happened in war? People got excited, people got bored, people hid the fact that they were terrified for their lives, and men died. The women cried. And there were far, far too many funerals for her liking.

Repetitive. Monotonous. Boring.

A lot like sex.

She slapped herself then. She never knew when to let an issue drop. Wait – what was she talking about, she _always_ did, she was _always_ primed and fit and ready to go, was she not? She was always a woman of the present. She fought battles and forgot about them. She ticked boxes, nodded her head, scribbled over maps, moving primly placed target to primly placed target.

She never wasted time in the past. Which was stupidly ironic, because when had the Varden ever thought about the future?

No, she was not bitter. She was definitely not bitter. She was not thinking of a certain pair of brothers who ever squirmed and wriggled out of her grasp, who _refused_ to _sit still_. Frustrating. Irritating. What made it worse was that she actually did like – no, she _loved_ a challenge. She loved the chase – rabid excitement, of the tussle and the hustle, the stalking – it was _enthralling._ She _wanted_ to pin down the prey, to dig in her claws, to stay, with empty words, empty rings and empty children's mouths to feed.

Love. Marriage. Family.

Three insidious words that would never be hers.

But Nasuada was a _practical_ woman, and _practical _women did not waste their time in deluded and impossible fantasies. Fantasising was something little girls and little boys did, wrapped up cosily in the sunset-swept chapters of a fairy-tale book, in inky scribbles of patchwork dragons in blue, blue skies. Fantasising was something little girls and little boys did, ripped out of the page, torn away from mamas and papas and bright coloured flowers, their faces stomped and squished and dirty, shivering in a muddy ditch somewhere, hearing their other brothers and sisters whimper as they killed each other, whimpering and crying. Like little boys and girls did.

_What would you have said dad? What would you have made of all this?_

She shook her head – no. No, no, and no. This wasn't right. Pay attention, Nasuada. She slowly – _frantically_ - opened the stained, half-folded note Jormundr had given her.

"_We carried out your instructions as requested. Captive #69 responded minimally. The only coherent response we received was during the second phase of the 'interview'. Repeated twice. Was two words long:"_

She dropped the cowardly little scribble on the floor.

"_Blue Rose."_

She stomped on it with a boot. It smeared the message. If she cared more, she would have burnt it, she decided, wringing her hands.

She paced the room. She bit her lip.

She tried to ignore the sound of screaming outside.

Her scarred hands pulled through her once immaculate, coiled hair, which was now a weathered and wild mess, strands dribbling everywhere. When had she begun to look like such a _state_? No – she didn't want to answer that question.

She wrung her hands again.

They smelt a bit like blood. Or was it tears? She couldn't tell much of a difference; she was sobbing all over the shop right now – for the first time in _god knows_ how long. Oh dear god – what a _wreck._ What a despicable _wreck. _

_Despised._

She thumped her fist on a table, smashing a crockery plate. It was replaceable.

"If _you_ hadn't had left me," she muttered bitterly. "If you hadn't left me..."

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Another guessing game. Which brother is she talking about at the end? IMO, it's Murtagh, but it could also be Eragon too. I like to pretend people are far more romantic at heart than they actually are.

I may postpone the next chapter by a bit, since it's pretty shoddy and needs a rethink, and at the same time, I desperately want to do a post-Inheritance one shot. It will be called '**The Girl Who Waited**' or '**The Girl in the Fireplace**' (because I can totally do unsubtle Doctor Who references too, CP). Leaning towards the former title, despite the latter title perhaps being more accurate. Guess which characters it's about :3. Please look out for it!

**Retsrained Freedom**: Alrighty. Explanation time. Arya wakes up in the room that she first woke up in when she came to Uru'baen. Hence her fear. But she finds it's the same room transported to another city - one which is hauntingly familiar. She hears the music again, and follows it, and in doing so, realises she's currently in an idyllic city estate in the richer part of this town. She goes to teh ballroom. The floor - for whatever reason - hurts for her to step on (magic, probably) - so as if by magic, a pair of shoes appears. She goes into the ballroom. Currently, there are dancers on the stage, and human nobles are conversing. She listens into a conversation, but is noticed when she stumbles, and fearfully she runs away (Arya's a pretty timid thing). But something has happened (magic again, probably) and she can't find the exit (hence all teh chaos at that point). She eventually finds a door - but not back where she came from, but to a balcony just outside the ballroom. Here she finds an actor. The italics represent flashbacks - firstly to Arya playing the 'Starlight Symphony' as it is called to a teacher as a child, and secondly, with Arya looking at a painting with Murtagh (so a flashback of within the past three weeks or so), and thinking back about what the past was like. The actor also claims to be at the bottom of all this. How true this claim is, we don't yet know.

As for the other PoVs, I think they're fairly self-explanatory.


	31. Waking Nightmares

V: Waking Nightmares

_"Deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance__." - Oscar Wilde_

* * *

><p>There was the faint smell of blood. Dripping.<p>

Arya awoke, squinting.

The light outside was bright – too bright. She crumpled her eyes up together, itching at her crusty eyelashes with tired fingers. There was something scratchy – irritating – jabbing at her back – which she ignored. And something hot and wet... she unjammed her eyes.

She was lying outside the closet she was in before she blacked out. The doors had been slammed open, where sacks, knick-knacks, broken boxes and tumbling supplies – bags of tea leaves, potatoes, dead parsley, in dried river-water – spilled out onto the grubby floor. Her elbow was propped up by a broken chair-leg, snapped in half, clawing into her skin with vicious splinters. And there was something hot and wet and streaking along her wrist... her vision flicked quickly towards it.

Blood. She shuddered.

She stayed still for a few moments. Her breathing grew hoarse – her vision thinned, a bit. She jammed her eyes shut again.

_I've seen blood before. Several times, _she thought. _I've seen blood before. I've seen blood before._ The words drummed into her, in a slick, repetitive rhythm. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

She gazed hazily at her surroundings again. This was a kitchen of sorts – stone worktops bathed in the sunlight, with musty, old wood cabinets lurking beneath in the grey, mid-morning shade. It was something servants might have used if they were allowed to; Murtagh refused to let them enter his domain, aside for hot meals to be brought up under strict instructions and privacy, and a weekly dust and change of sheets. So instead, it lay untouched and forgotten.

Then she looked down at her wrist.

A knife lay on the floor, shiny and red. She swallowed. A jagged cut – shallow – ripped along her wrist. It was uneven – perhaps she had accidently dropped the knife the wrong way? She hoped she had. Because it wasn't something she had done deliberately_. _Arya knew what a deliberate cut looked like. She did not like to think of it.

She reached over to scrape her wrist – before noticing her left hand. The pentacle – those big black ugly marks – a star and a circle – were still _there._

_It wasn't just a dream._

And suddenly the world was on fire.

* * *

><p>"Hello?"<p>

No echo.

"...Hello?"

A trembling little hand brushed Arya's cheek. She stirred – it removed itself instantly.

Crouching in front of her was the teenage boy with blonde haired curls.

"You fell asleep. You didn't pass out."

His tone clattered in her ears – it was... unusually harsh. She noticed he bit his tongue as he spoke. He barely looked at her, too – his eyes, flickered, back and forth, like a flame-lit lanterns, painted in soft blue.

She lurched forwards, grabbed the knife – still wet – from the floor, and held it against his white, warm, quivering little neck.

"Tell me this is a dream. Tell me this is a hallucination. Tell me this isn't real."

"I-I – I..." Her frantic muttering made him stutter; a knife edge pierced his words. "I – I just want to t-talk. Please."

"_Tell me_," she cried, ignoring him. "_Tell me!"_

He inhaled. He felt something prick at his skin.

"I'm not real and I don't exist and I never will." He said this all very quickly and breathlessly.

She dropped the knife. It hit the floor with a shallow _clang_ing_._

"What do you want?" she asked.

"To..." he trailed off, clenching his stomach slightly, a morbid chuckling scattering across the floorboards. "I'm sorry – Miss Elf, you are a surprising creature, and somewhat unpredictable... and impossible to find... no, I am dreadfully sorry, I don't like being imposing, I don't... "

He took drew in a sigh.

"I'm not very good at this, am I?" he laughed – hollowly. "I came to apologise. About particular events. Well, earlier – yesterday, I suppose you recall it all precisely – in The Master's Library – "

Her eyes narrowed to knife-edge slits.

"What do you want?" she interrupted.

"I'm – sorry?"

"You said you didn't know what that place was. You called it 'The Master's Library' just now." She spoke solemnly. "You lied to me."

He did not reply.

"What do you want?" she repeated.

He did not reply. He only glanced desperately – quickly – at the knife. And then back to her.

"What do _you want_?"

"Nothing," he said. "Do – well, do I have to want something? I don't – I don't want anything. I'm not made for it – "

"You don't exist. You're not made for anything substantial except extracting information and turning up."

"– I don't..." he swallowed, and began to choke on his shuddering words.

The elf did not do anything. She only watched and stared.

A few minutes of stumbling silence passed.

In a very small voice, he began to speak again.

"I – I didn't mean to startle you. That day. In the library. I did not mean to frighten you so... I didn't, I honestly didn't... "

He looked up. Her stare would have turned sirens into stone.

"I _didn't!"_ he exclaimed – before falling to his knees.

She did not flinch.

"I'm... sorry, Miss Elf. I do believe I'm wasting your time. I'll leave you now. Enjoy this fleeting dream while you can."

He struggled upwards, and turned, his fingers leaving dainty prints on the dust-coated worktops.

"You're... _going?" _asked Arya, confusedly.

The question wasn't answered.

* * *

><p>She woke again, between soft, luxuriant sheets that had been tossed and turned from the lurid tides of dreams and maddening, steaming nights.<p>

Then there was light.

"Ah. Hello."

Light bright enough to scald bare skin.

"You took your time," said Murtagh, leaning sloppily against the doorway. It was probably a quote picked from his typical half-amused mutterings, which he had relentlessly primed and polished for weeks on end, before he plucked it – casually – at the opportune moment.

"How long have I been out for?"

"A hundred years, give or take – no, it's been two weeks, Malena," he said, his voice plummeting from light and fluffy to sardonic storm clouds.

"Two... _weeks?_"

"Yes. Quite.'

His gaze slipped downwards. He swallowed. A moment's silence slipped by unnoticed.

'Oh god, your face!" he cried out – with laughter – suddenly. "You look absolutely horrified at the thought." He snatched a moment to catch a breath and a typical smirk.

"Ah," she replied, somewhat confused. She began to rustle upwards and unfurl herself from sticky silken wrapping – before noticing he was there. He was leaning on a rickety stool, scraped away from a forgotten room, dragged into bizarre luxury, and placed firmly next to her bed, where it would wait patiently and simply. No feverish midnight walks, no frantic pacing of the halls, no constant in-and-out-in-and-out checking, no skulking her bedside with an unopened book weighing on its lap, wondering why the bed its beloved in was suddenly empty. It was a stool, and stools did not move.

(Although Malena was certain she saw a dancing stool when she witnessed the Masque. But that did not matter.)

"Murtagh," she began – his attention snapped towards her immediately, a distant smile glossing over his face. In the harsh and critical light, he seemed weighed down by the day itself. As a general rule, if Murtagh came in looking like a hurricane had wrecked his intestines and his eyes had been nailed open for the last fourteen days, there was something possibly wrong.

"... Is there something wrong?" she said, shuddering.

He seemed struck – thrown, perhaps, by the fact that the only man/elf/woman/elfette (what _was_ a female elf called anyway?) bothering to consider his largely nonsensical, degrading, and/or simply pitiful thoughts and feelings was a greater misanthrope than himself.

He considered the question for a moment.

"Well, I've despised every waking moment of the past fourteen days, but that really isn't that unusual."

"Oh?" She swallowed. How are you?s and Are you well?s and Are you Okay?s were not at all her, ah, natural territory. No, Arya tended to ignore questions like that. Just like she tended to ignore people as a whole.

"Don't particularly want to talk about it." He paused. "It begins with 'W' and ends in 'oar'."

"Whore?" she asked earnestly.

A strained chuckle.

"Funny. But that's enough of guessing games for today. I've had enough of them for the past month. You've been here a month now – with _me_ of all the people in the world, god knows why – now isn't that quaint?"

"Not really."

An exasperated groan. He flopped down onto the bed beside her.

"Malena, what are the odds this little exchange will either end in each of us wrestling on the floor, naked, whilst attempting to tear each other's vocal chords out, or sex?"

She didn't answer the question. The two options seemed identical.

"Malena?"

An irritated moan.

She rolled over onto her side – facing away from Murtagh. Her head was ache-y and itch-y. It was late – too late – two o'clock, even... at two in the afternoon, it was _late_ – and she was was suddenly exhausted.

"Malena – "

He stopped himself. His hand lightly brushed her shoulder – she shuddered at the touch of another, queasily. She flicked it away – at first. A moment passed – before she violently grabbed his arm and hauled it over her, latching two hairy hands firmly around her waist.

It occurred to him that this was the first time they had – well, as much as he despised the matronly term – _cuddled_.

"You changed my dress," she said, glaring forwards, focusing on a crusty patch of wallpaper opposite that was – irregular – unfitting.

She was right; he had changed her dress. He had seen her naked before – his hands had lathered over every filthy nook and untouchable cranny, washed through barren, hollow caverns with an insatiable hunger – obviously, changing a dress was an unspeakable evil in comparison, one rightly condemned by the public with rancour. But she didn't mind it much. It meant the white thing was gone. The damp, clinging, everything-but-white dress, encrusted with rims of bloodied mud, had now vanished. Its velvet replacement was an engrossing crimson – a deep, sorrowful red. There was no lace at the sleeves; it did not seem fitting. It sucked tightly in at the waist.

"Well, you'd mentioned it fifty odd times," said Murtagh. "I'd found replacements – I mentioned it to you in a note, once – but you never bothered to even check your drawers."

"But they're _your_ drawers. I didn't want to just check them." Her voice thumped against the air, sharp and crude against the four, thick, muffling walls of the bedroom. She added, tentatively, "I don't like to steal."

They were both looking towards a simple potted vase – incongruous to the scarlet luxury of the room – that had been plonked down on a side table. A bunch of swelling poppies stemmed from it, hanging their bloodied heads in shame. They were of typical garden-variety; invisible elves could easily pinch a few stray seeds from the local market.

"I hate singing magic," said Arya. "It's so obnoxious."

Murtagh swallowed and chuckled at the same time and it resulted in a strangled noise.

"The colour is nice, though," she said. "It's... solemn. I like it,"

"Well, you _did_ say it was your favourite colour – I thought I'd oblige."

"You pay actually _attention_ to what I say?"

"Well... yes? Is that such a terrible thing?"

"No. No, I don't think so. Just... mildly unorthodox."

"Mildly." He snorted. "Least likely adverb that would apply to you," he said.

"Is that an insult?"

"Not in the slightest. I admire you, actually, for it. You... ah, you live in wholes, rather than halves."

"_Admire? _What do you mean?"

"Well – mind the cliché – but you do things with your heart–"

"No I don't."

"Exactly."

"No – you don't understand. You don't understand at all."

"Exactly."

"Shut up."

He fell silent. His hands clenched around her waist tighter. They lay on the bed for a few moments, holding each other, shifting uncomfortably.

He spoke first.

"When I was sixteen years old, and old enough to choose a profession, I decided I would become a doctor. I collected medical books, and began to pore over them by candlelight, memorising the bone structure of the foot finger by rote and listing locations, qualities, properties, symptoms and solutions of excess, of the four humours by heart. And I was damned good at it. I was damned good at soullessly shovelling facts and figures and names down my throat. So I decided that regardless of any token of advice or stringent orders or petty bribes or unsubtle subtle hints that teachers, tutors, politicians, servants, maids, lords and ladies and kings told me. I decided that regardless of how my future had been plotted line for line, dot for desperate dot, written in ink and stone. My name was engraved into the esteemed military academy from the age of twelve; the brass buttons of an acceptable rank – colonel, possibly – had already been cast in iron with my initials; the deed for the following lordship of acceptable size – one of the plains counties, probably – significant but insignificant – had my name on its deed, dated the year after _this_ Civil War had inevitably finished with an resounding Imperial victory; my successively more important and more ostentatious seats in court had reservation plaques with the name of _a sixteen year old_ on it, and fitting dates – M. Morzansson Esq. 1589 – 1591, et cetera, et cetera – until I was where I am standing now, right-hand man – but I didn't care at the time, I wanted to be a _doctor_, but when it came to voicing my opinion – "

"What is this anecdote supposed to achieve?"

He looked rather stunned. There was silence for a moment.

"I don't know," he said, exasperated. "Sorry – look, I rarely voice things publically as it is. I'm much curter when I'm with anybody but you. And I hate – _hate_ – being told to be quiet. It's why I don't speak much – except with you."

Arya frowned.

"I'm a mess, Murtagh. Don't idolise me."

"I don't – I just obsess fairly psychotically." That was a _joke_ – don't shiver like that, it's creepy – a _joke._ And look now who's using clichés?"

"Sorry."

It was a typical Arya apology. Spoken with only rancour and venom.

"It doesn't matter," he said, half-sarcastically. "Nothing matters. Whatever's orthodox or unorthodox or mild or unmild or murderous or unmurderous – they're just invisible lines."

He took a long, exaggerated sigh.

"A dead body isn't an invisible line," she added quietly.

"And a kill isn't murder. What would that make all of us – all of us 'warriors' – _murderers?_" He stopped himself laughing, because it wasn't very funny.

They held each other in silence again, for what seemed like a while. Her quick, shallow little breaths, and his longer, slower, more raggedy – erratic – but still calmer – breaths, were the only sounds that could be heard. Sometimes he would gently brush the back of her neck – with strands of dark hair, with his breath, low, and warm...

"I need to go to a meeting in five minutes," he said.

"Oh." She swallowed. "I thought you said you were giving up work."

"I lied."

She unfastened his arms from her waist, and sat up rigidly. She looked at him, and said nothing.

"Oh, don't be such a _hypocrite_," he replied. "You're not exactly an _honest_ woman yourself, Miss Arya Drottingu – "

"_Don't call me that!" _she screeched. The bed shook as she erupted – reverberated – quaked.

He scowled, and pulled himself off the bed.

"You of all people should know," he said.

"Know _what?_"

He didn't reply. He did not even look at her as he sauntered out of the room, swinging his jacket behind him.

The door slammed.

Arya slumped back on the bed, into a frazzled heap, exhausted.

_Idiot._

She wanted him back already.

_Idiot idiot idiot._

She wanted him back _now_.

"Go fuck yourself," she mumbled aloud, to no one in particular. "Go. Fuck. Yourself."

She was tired of waiting – tired of waiting, yet again – for nothing much. Just sex. Sex was nothing much.

* * *

><p>She awoke – <em>again<em> – sprawled across the ruffled bedsheets. The room smelt distinctly of semen. Wet and salty.

_It's your imagination, _she thought.

She crawled out of the bed. She wasn't even aware of having fallen asleep – _again_ – had it been an hour? Or two? Or four or eight or sixteen... no, it _must_ still be afternoon... then again... _urgh_. She shuddered. The weighing of impossible possibilities, swinging back from side to side, it all made her queasy.

_What if that conversation with Murtagh wasn't real either?_

The thought struck her in the face. No – that was just stupid. Ridiculous. Highly improbable. As improbable as the elfin princess fucking the Morzan's son (out of _choice_ no less).

_You're working yourself up._

Because Arya knew nothing better than how to work tirelessly and devotedly without any devotion whilst completely exhausted. She rubbed at her temples irritably and began pacing around the quarters. They were decidedly messy – reams of wallpaper had been peeled off, stripped, around upside-down furniture and agape books – but it was nothing that a bit of _magic_ couldn't fix.

Her stomach interrupted with a frustrated groan.

_I haven't eaten in two weeks, haven't I?_

Yes that must be it – and it must be why she was absolutely ravenous for any morsel of food she could find right now.

She scoured the rooms, before eventually finding the dilapidated kitchen she had woken in.

_Perhaps there's something in between these musty cobwebs?_

As her fingertips brushed the worktops, she noticed the fingerprints of another person.

She shivered, and ignored it.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Sorry for being so off-the-ball. There were a few things:

1. I was busy with the most important essay of my life to date so far.  
>2. I was rejected from a university that I have wanted to go to since I was quite small. That was quite a hit.<br>3. I tried to recover from this with some therapeutic writing... but then I took an arrow in the knee. If you can say anything of Skyrim, it is damn addicting.  
>4. I DID eventually recover with therapeutic writing... just another fic, before feeling guilty about leaving this and pretty much abandoning the project.<br>5. Then I had a crisis on plotting this and the direction I should take. Writer's block of a sorts. Yeah.

I hope this chapter isn't too filler-y for you all D: The good news is that I now have four weeks off school! Hopefully I might get close to wrapping this up... if not by then, then there will possibly be a several-month-long hiatus. But I refuse to be defeated by this story. _Refuse_. I've come too far for that. I want to finish something for the first time when it comes to writing. Even if the plot is a horrific tangle such as this.


	32. A Timeless Story

A Timeless Story

_"I'm thirty-nine years old. I've got a wife that I can't get rid of. I've got varicose veins. I've got five false teeth."  
>"I couldn't care less," said the girl.<em>

_- George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four_

* * *

><p>"<em>Wake up."<em>

The ocean was harsh and grey. Bristling waves would swell up into bearded cusps, white and whiskered, before subsiding, and solemnly bowing beneath the storm. The grimy stench of sea salt, and the thickening fog – those remained wholly consistent, however.

"_Wake_ _up._"

Eragon was riding the waves. From above the snaring entanglement of the fog clouds, you could barely discern his little brown-haired head, bobbing. Up and down. Up and down. Trembling – slightly – from excitement! – on a rigid little piece of driftwood, the tide shook and stirred him from trough crest to crest. There was no point swimming against it. He would be swallowed with an efficient gulp. And there would be nothing left of Eragon Finariel Shadeslayer but a watery shadow, faint memories in a picture book. No, that would not do. So Eragon let himself be carried, gripping onto his makeshift raft.

"_Wake_ _up._"

There wasn't really much there. Just salt and sea and blinding fog. But Eragon was still alive. That was enough. That was enough, was it? He let himself be carried for a while. It was easier to be carried.

Time passed.

The fog began to break. Beyond the growling sea, was moorland – vast, bleak, majestic moors, which stretched up, black and melancholy, beyond the lofty sky. Perhaps if Eragon had choreographed the scene, music would have been sung from the peaks of those dire hills, bellowing into the ocean below, wild and grandiose and dramatic.

But of course, nothing played. He didn't hear much. Just the tides, hissing in the wind.

"_Wake_ _up._"

Then he noticed the harsh, jagged rocks that the sea was hurling him towards –

* * *

><p>"You," said the healer. "Are an idiot. A complete and utter idiot. A stupid, reckless, <em>nitwittical<em> – "

"Tell me something I don't know," retorted the hero, making a disgruntled face. It was too early. Too early, too bright – even for a grey, empty room at the back of beyond with no windows – and too damned _sober_.

" – pompous pea-brained _idiot_. What in _hell's_ name were you thinking?"

_Something more interesting than this conversation._ There was no point voicing the thought aloud. The healer was invulnerable to smart-assed irrelevant comments – except for his own, of course.

"You fell _three hundred feet from the air _– "

"Occupational hazard. I have wards, enchantments, and a damn parachute for that – "

"Above a _volcano – _"

"Okay then – slight oversight– but surely the typical temperature and atmospheric enchantments I use should be enough to cope with toxic gases at least a hundred degrees above room temperature for short exposure before you used those teleportation runes I specifically gave you –"

"Which I did. You decelerated into the middle of the island and got mauled by a cave troll," said the healer.

"_Ouch._"

"And you still managed to survive – "

"Of _course_ I did." The hero did not say the phrase particularly joyously.

"It took me three weeks and you were bawling like a baby for all of them."

"Must have been your greatest pleasure to witness."

"Oh believe me, it was absolutely _splendid,_" snorted the healer. "Do you _enjoy_ killing yourself? Seriously? I'm beginning to wonder – "

"I wouldn't know. Not really been too successful on that front, have I? Shame, that."

There was an long, irritable silence that crawled around for a few moments – before the healer squashed the damn thing with his thumb.

"Damn it, man! Can't you think of anyone but yourself?"

"No."

A rough silence.

"I sometimes wonder – " the healer ventured. "I mean, god, you're so deliberately reckless at times – and you're not thick either – whether you _do _actually want to – well, die –"

The hero snorted with laughter.

"Honestly, if I _really_ wanted to die, I would have accidentally stabbed myself years ago."

"You didn't, though."

"I'm too much of a _coward_."

The healer swallowed. A silence.

* * *

><p>A man stood above Eragon. His features were thin, select, precise. Perhaps elegant – if they had not been weighed down with stern, heavy lines, and a half-scowl.<p>

"Breakfast is in the kitchen."

He turned and left, walking with a half-hearted shuffle. The door slammed wearily behind him.

Eragon sighed.

He was lying on a thin bedmat in an empty room in a borrowed roughspun tunic. The dark floorboards were slick with wood polish – and not much else. Anonymous white plaster walls stood as distant onlookers. There was one door – one entry and exit.

He'd had rather a lot of time to get accustomed to these stark, plain – almost puritan – surroundings. They were nicer than the crumbling cottage he grew up in, but he didn't particularly like to think of that, let alone use it as comparison. He'd been in this room for... well, he couldn't remember, he'd only been properly conscious of the last couple of days, and time tends to fly by on the breeze... The man – his healer of sorts, but definitely not a doctor: "I'm far too useful to be a doctor," – had said it had been around three weeks. Ish.

Not as if Eragon trusted a single word that the healer, who was supposedly called Heslant, said. As in, Heslant the monk,the genius archivist and sole author of _Domia Abr Wyrda _– the most influential set of historical records for the past millennia, that had been the prime basis for the anti-Imperial rebellion and the inspiration for the formation of the Varden itself.

Yeah. _That_ Heslant.

"Co-author, actually. Heslant was an acronym – there were seven of us, in all. The other six got burnt at the stake for blasphemy and high treason. Execution overseen by Morzan himself – the poor sods."

"How come you're still alive then?"

"Bribed the guard."

"Oh."

So really, Eragon had no idea what his name was. Only that it began with H, E, S, L, A, N, or T. Knowing Eragon's luck, it'd begin with 'A'. All terrible things began with that letter. Well, most of the important ones – or rather, one.

(At least 'M' wasn't an option. God, that was a vile letter – so vile, he did not consider it a proper letter at all.)

Eragon resisted the urge to sigh – a long, weary, broken sigh, the only noise anyone ever bothered to make in this godforsaken place – and stumbled out of bed. His legs were still sore from whatever-in-gods-name-he-did to get here, and he had to be _careful_ (careful? Eragon snorted derisively at the thought); however, if he waited any longer Heslant would return with a bucket of ice cold water, or gods knows, some other toxic liquid to casually threaten with. Eragon wouldn't put it pass Heslant to freeze his own urine to toss on the unsuspecting dragon rider for the sake of simply being a pisshead. _Har-de-har-de-har._

He began to make his way towards the kitchen, trudging down three sets of stairs and through . Heslant's cottage – hut – humble abode – Eragon couldn't really think of the word for it; it wasn't homely and cosy enough to be either of those things, and far too large... house. He would settle on house. The house itself was rather, well,

Empty.

Eragon had been strictly instructed not to explore the clean, crisp corridors and numerous shadowy oaken doors than seemed to zig-zig across landings, staircases-to-nowhere, steps, curves, and bends, each doorknob big and shiny and polished, waiting for the slick hands of a young-and-rather-curious-dragon-rider-hero to unlock its secrets...

He shivered. There was something wrong – slightly queasy – unnerving about it...

According to Heslant, half of the doors were enchanted, half of the doors were death traps, and half of the doors lead to circular mazes of empty rooms, each more embittered, each more dissatisfying, and each more irksome than the last.

"This old place used to belong to an ancient line of powerful magicians – or rather, once-powerful. I presume the rather eccentric layout was designed by their long-suffering wives."

That was explanation enough. _Magic. _

Eragon was as fed up with it as Heslant was. Three days of his polite company had been enough to smash any lingering hope of a more satisfying explanation to anything – no wild, rip-roaring, and partially psychotic tale involving valour and honour and ripping someone's guts out would do. Just _magic_.

He slunk into the kitchen, hopping across the blisteringly-cold tiles. He sat down on a rickety chair, around the main table, where Heslant was already sitting opposite, with two bowls of thin, greasy soup laid out. He looked at the boy for a moment.

"Eat," he then said.

And so they ate. And said no more.

It was the only used room in the house he had actually seen, with lacy cobwebs trimming the ceiling, and unwashed plates, pots, and pans piling up on the dusty counters. The lone, four-paned window was usually clogged up with steam – it was a mite cold outside, _snappily_ so, just-so-typical in the middle of July – so lit candlesticks were semi-permanently half-melted onto the edges of tables and counters and dust-covered corners. There were a few thick, grubby books and plastered pages heaped in unceremonious piles on the floor – but not many. Eragon, on the first evening, asked about a lumbering, tatty black volume teetering on the edge of the grubby sink, whether it actually _was Domia Abr Wyrda_ itself –

"Oh – _that_ old thing," he said, glancing towards it distastefully. "Yes, I mean. That's it. Original edition – unabridged, one of... two, I think, left in existence."

"Woaaah," said Eragon, involuntarily. As he gaped, he spilt half a spoonful of piping hot tomato soup on the corner of his tunic. He quickly dabbed the edge of it into the stain, hiding a grimace – god, how old _was_ he? Riders didn't spill their food.

Heslant ignored this completely, nodding in response, in conviction.

"Cumbersome thing, really. Don't get excited though – it's just all whitewash propaganda and poppycock."

"Wait – what?"

"It's filled with lies, kid."

"Don't call me kid. And you've got to be fucking with me – "

"Rather glamorises the truth really, one of the old 'romances' – typical of its time –"

"You're _fucking_ with me."

"I do not 'fuck' with you. I'm being completely straight here –"

"Shut up."

"As historical volumes go, it's _pissworthy_ –"

"_Shut up_."

Heslant looked – not taken aback, but... confused. He cocked up a streamlined eyebrow at the boy questionably, before his features were overtaken by a gruesome scowl, basking in utter displeasure far more than usual. He carefully placed his spoon next to his bowl, and said nothing.

"You – you've got to be lying," said Eragon. "You've got to be."

"Why would I?" Heslant snapped, refusing to look at the boy.

"_Because,_" said Eragon.

Because that wasn't what the Varden had said.  
>Because that wasn't what the elves had said.<br>Because that went against every single word of instruction, and education he had ever been given.  
>Because that left him completely baseless, lost at sea, and as his foundations crumbled into the sand, he would swoop down face-first slamming into the muck, where ignorant, coarse, dirty-faced, dirty-fingered, <em>commoner<em> farmboys lived.

And he'd sworn he'd never go back to that.

So Heslant was a liar. It was the only rational solution.

It was better than _magic_, at any rate.

"Why are you staring at me?"

Eragon shook his head, suddenly. A dribble of soup and breadcrumbs was dripping absently off his spoon, onto the table – he put it down suddenly. Heslant was looking at him somewhat curiously, his thin,

"Oh. Sorry," said Eragon.

They continued to eat in silence.

_Where are you, Saphira, goddamit?_

No response. Of course there was no response. She wasn't there.

* * *

><p>The healer swallowed. A silence. He shook his head – after a frazzled sigh – and said:<p>

"God, you're so morbid when you're sober."

"Get me a drink then," said the hero.

"_Delighted_ to oblige, sir. Alcohol poisoning on a plate, then?"

"Suck my cock, whilst you're at it."

"Isn't that what you pay your wife for?"

A frustrated sigh.

"You bloody well know I can't die from alcohol poisoning, smart-arse," said the hero, ignoring him. "I'm built like a tank."

"A _what_?"

"Never mind – ignore me, like you usually do. Mild Historical Anachronism."

The healer smiled crookedly. "Have you ever really considered that you're rather... well, rather _weird_?"

The hero snorted. "Yet another reason why I'd make an abysmal husband and/or father. I'm too unconventional for eternal matrimony."

"Never say never."

"Psh, who are you to talk, shutting yourself up in this old ruin? Honestly, we – the two of us, treasured _relics_ of the old world – we'd make the worst parents in the world. I'd gut my own son before he can endure the experience, personally."

"So sure it'll be a son?"

"Haven't you been paying attention? At all? Rule Numero Uno: Fate," announced the hero, tiredly, "Is a _bitch."_

"Fate isn't so simple. And neither are you."

The hero gave him a sardonic glare. "I like booze and bitches and dick jokes."

"You pretend to like booze and bitches and dick jokes," repeated the healer, sighing in exaggerated exasperation. "And rummaging around alternate dimensions for an impossible and rather arbitrary object of power whilst breaking every single law of physics just because you _can_."

"Don't be so pedantic."

"I'm not pedantic. I'm just a realist," said the healer. The hero cocked an eyebrow at the oft-repeated – and highly misused – phrase.

"No, you just enjoy ruining things because you're sick and twisted."

* * *

><p>"Ready for today's arbitrary task?"<p>

"I'm absolutely thrilled," said Eragon.

"That's the spirit," replied Heslant, faintly.

It had been a week – or had it been two? The days languished and the nights slipped by – so suddenly, that Eragon forgot that they'd even passed...

They were walking up in the moors. The sun was skimming the horizon, glimpsing through the gathering storm clouds. Thickets of heather shivered in the wind. A crow cawed in the distance; it echoed. Little white moths would flitter upwards from stirring bushes as they passed, and rustle across the sky – like feathery tumbleweed, crossing these cold hills. If Eragon stood up on his toes, in the distance, a slither of grey could be spotted – the harsh, iron sea that encircled the island.

Heslant had been insofar reluctant to tell him whereabouts this empty island actually was – aside from 'in the sea' – but Eragon had a suspicion that it wasn't that far west of Kuasta. It was the direction Eragon had been travelling before crash-landing here – unless Heslant was actually to be believed, and he hadn't actually crashed here at all on Saphira (who had completely disappeared), but instead fallen three hundred feet in the air by himself, nearly into Lake Leona itself, before _teleporting_ by some means of magical enchantment or protective charm thousands of miles away to this island. Where Eragon had then been mauled by a cave troll. And Heslant had only managed to find his crumpled body – barely alive – by _chance_?

Then again, according to Heslant, Saphira was dead. Which couldn't be right. Because if she was dead Eragon would have thrown himself off a cliff by now.

(Or he was seriously in denial)

Heslant couldn't _know_ that sort of information. He was just a sneaky middle-aged man. Just like he couldn't know Eragon was a Dragon Rider, he couldn't know that he was a member of the Varden, that he was born in Carvahall, taken away by his father – Brom, trained by his master – Oromis, and fighting the great Galbatorixian Empire itself.

Apparently Heslant knew all of this. Apparently Eragon had told him all of this when he was unconscious. Psychically. Because apparently Eragon spent three weeks screaming aloud before waking up, and Heslant had to figure out why.

"Just like being born again, eh?" Heslant had joked, weakly, about the affair. He frowned – was it with _pity? _The thought of being _pitied_... it made his stomach churn with revulsion.

Still, Eragon had nothing better to do than stay with the man. He could have left at any time, gathered his glittering things, various potions, power-ups, shiny magpie treasures, from the trunk that Heslant left _deliberately _open... – in fact he nearly tried once, before stopping himself: because what was waiting for him outside the grim borders of this island?

Saphira had disappeared. Off-screen "death". Didn't warrant enough attention, really. Minor character. Unimportant, in the grand scheme of things. Course – she'd return at the right time, to save the day – Eragon had no doubt. Which left him with really two motives – a war and a woman. The woman – elf, technically, but who was listening to check? – had gone AWOL. Which left him with a war. A messy, tangled, bloody war he wasn't that enthusiastic about, if he had to be honest, in which he was only a mindless axe-man (better than a taxman, at any rate), a red-handed puppet tugged by a thousand moaning strings, a _pawn._

Not that Eragon had many grievances about being a pawn. Killing people was sad, of course, as always – but he was a Dragon Rider!_ Right? _He had a cool sword – fancy titles – a badass dragon – a hot elfin princess at his beck and call – how awesome was that?

... he didn't particularly want to answer the question.

But it was nice, being without that. Nice to have some fresh, crisp air, he meant – this – he span around, gazing at the wild, barren heaths around. Nice to have some time – without screaming, without boiling hot blood, without all the mess – it was nice, for the first time in a year-or-so, to just be... free. Or close-as-he-could-be-to-free. Whatever.

(A bit lonely, though.)

"Oi!"

Eragon's head turned. It was Heslant – he was a good fifty feet ahead, sat on the overhang, grinning wickedly. _Damn old man, _Eragon thought, steaming ahead, breaking into a run.

"Gloomy, isn't it?" the old man said, as the young rider caught up with him – almost panting, he gleefully noted.

The boy was quiet for a moment, before he responded thoughtfully:

"Yeah."

Heslant chuckled.

"I mean," Eragon said quickly, "Sorry, I _like _it. I _like_ the space – the air. Just... it's a bit depressing?"

"Don't worry, I loathe the place too."

"Ah," said Eragon, frowning. "Why on earth do you live here, then?"

"Practical reasons, mostly. How do I explain this... ah... I wouldn't say the Empire are exactly _endearing_ of me."

"Join the Varden, then?"

"Hell no." Heslant was giving his best what-are-you-_crazy?_ face. "I don't want to, and they aren't exactly _endeared _of me either. Them and the Surdans, before you ask."

"You have... a lot of enemies."

"Not my fault – "

"Mostly unintentional?" said Eragon, finishing the oft-repeated sentence. "You know, if it was anyone else, I'd wonder if they were a mass-murderer or something."

"Me too, probably," said Heslant. A rare smirk jumped on his lips, before dropping promptly again.

"...You're _not_ a mass murderer, are you?"

"No," he said, drily. He sighed. "I only came here, as opposed to anywhere else, because my wife loved the place – well, she'd never admit it, but –"

"You were _married?"_

"Don't sound surprised. It could happen to you one day," said Heslant, sniggering. "Six of the strangest years of my life. Very... topsy-turvy. I'm not too partial to change, so it was – ah, a shock, really. To fall 'in love', and all that tripe. Not a bad one, most of the time."

"What happened?"

"Died of typhoid fever."

"Oh."

The two of them watched the grey and stagnant view for a moment's silence, as the breeze fluttered by.

"Sorry," said Eragon.

"Don't be. You have nothing to apologise for. It all happened before you were born," said Heslant. "Besides, weren't we supposed to be distracting ourselves with an arbitrary task for the day, as opposed to mulling over morose feelings?"

Eragon simply gave the man a long, hard, sad look.

"Idiot," muttered Heslant.

* * *

><p>"No, you just enjoy ruining things because you're sick and twisted," said the hero. <em>Realists<em>. He couldn't be honestly be arsed with the pretentious 'Oh look at me I'm cynical!' malarkey. Confusing it for actual _sense_ and intelligence. They were as bad as _elves._

"So, I'm sick and twisted, then?" snapped the healer. "Rich. Coming from _you_ of all people – "

"Please don't tell me you're _still_ bitter about that inheritance of yours I squandered," said the hero, smirking.

The healer glared.

"I don't care about money. Not anymore. Even though I don't have nightmares with faces in my sleep and all that rubbish. But I stopped. Because it's _morally wrong," _said the healer. The hero resisted the urge to roll his eyes – being morally lectured by an ex-totalitarian-neo-capitalist-slash-mafia-don was insufferable at the best of times. Oh wait, should he have put a minor spoiler warning on that? Never mind. The healer was a minor character, so nobody cared anyway – car_ed_, because all the people who would have possibly cared about the healer were now dead. All the best people were dead. (The hero certainly didn't care. It wasn't his job.)

The healer continued, "Yet you – you _hate_ killing. You despise it; but you're still the mass murderer here – "

"Collateral damage. It's not murder," corrected the hero.

"You don't even know what the phrase means."

"It's Collateral. Fucking. Damage. Of course I fucking do you fucking moron –"

"Because those killings were completely unintentional," said the hero.

"You weren't even there to see them. How could you – how _could_ you even _say_ that – you weren't there – you've never seen your 'friends' die or had to _kill _them on the battlefield – watch their blood spill like cheap wine... fuck you. Fuck you _so much_."

The healer sat and stared, not incredibly amused.

"So what – was your little pal Brom a wholly _unintentional_ civilian casualty?"

"He was an idiot," said the hero.

"And was your father?"

A cruel, hard, frigid silence.

"You didn't just say that."

"I did," said the healer. "You'd kill him again if you had the chance."

"I didn't –" the hero stopped himself, and said in a low voice: "I thought we got over this _twenty years ago._"

"Evidently we didn't." The healer lurched forward and muttered grimly in the hero's ear. "Grow up, Morzan."

The healer then stood up, moved away, and shut the door behind him.

There was a long, hollow silence that stunk of hangover.

"You're a complete hypocrite, did you know that?" said the hero, to the empty room, after a muffled groan. "All of you. Complete hypocrites."

* * *

><p>Eragon had gotten lost. Well, of course he did. He was <em>Eragon Shadeslayer.<em> Getting lost came easily to him. At least he didn't deny the fact that he was well and truly _stumped_ – unlike a certain ex-monk he could mention.

He was asking for it – he guessed. If Saphira had been there, she would have skewered him alive. But she wasn't. So she couldn't.

Eragon, of course, had done something he'd not supposed to. He'd opened a door. Who could blame him? Big houses, polished houses, vast, empty things that you could lost in – those weren't something he was used to. He had to resist the urge to race down those wooden corridors, swinging around doors from room to room, arms out wide, his fingertips brushing – just barely – against the cracked, white stucco that trembled beneath the walls, silently gaping and grinning and grimacing somehow all at once at how... well, strange it was.

Like a kid. Well, he was a kid. Why the hell should he have to grow up anyway? Because he was supposed to be leading the charge in a war? Well, he wasn't doing that anymore. Nor did he want to.

No, he was dancing around an empty house, bare feet pattering against floorboards which hadn't been walked on in decades. It was awesome. And that was, coincidently, how he got lost. His own fault, really, for not thinking Heslant's nonchalant warning about enchanted doors and mazes to nowhere was at all _serious._

Oh well.

Perhaps this was his – Eragon's – intention all along. It was certainly an awe-inspiring experience, opening a wooden door to walk into crumbling ruins, decrepit half-buildings, tangled in ivy and wild poppies, within wandering distance of the hiss of the sea... It was also rather... unconventional, when said door shut behind you without you touching it, and then for you to turn around, and find it wasn't there anymore.

Fuck.

Eragon's first impulse was to swear rapidly and walk around in panicky circles. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck._

He did this for a few minutes before collapsing on the floor, in the dirt and grass.

_There is no point getting worked up, _he told himself. _Getting mad at yourself just makes you more of a thoughtless, blundering, stupid – crap, I'm doing it again, aren't I?_ He threw his head into his hands. It was okay. It was okay – it was still daylight. He had at least five or six hours to work out how the hell to get home (that he called it home now... he could have laughed) before it got dark, and before Heslant noticed. Well – Heslant _would_ notice. But that was beside the point...

This was why he generally avoided acting his age. It got him inevitably in trouble.

Saphira, if she were there, would have told him to get over himself. Eragon would have course, stubbornly ignored her and then they would have bickered like an old married couple in that irritatingly cutesy way which made him want to vomit everywhere and then Saphira would attempt to comfort him but not really because she'd still say he had to get over himself and Eragon would tell her to _shut up shut up shut up stupid voices stupid thoughts stupid stupid stupid. _

But she wasn't there. So it didn't matter much, didn't it?

He sighed, and pulled himself upwards. He began to walk. That would clear his head – _hopefully._

The ruins were dotted about randomly in the expanse – a few vast, ancient columns over here, an inscription in a lost language over there. Rubble and bits and pieces of priceless pottery were strewn about for good measure. Even the floor was carved upon. Most of the ruin was dispersed in regimented lines – streets possibly? But they were so wide apart... These strict, straight measures would curve slowly... yes, as he followed them, the lines all swooped together into one point – one centre, before erupting into chaotic zig-zagging mish-mashing, before the ruins suddenly stopped. Vanished, one could say. Suddenly_._

All of it was firmly ensnared by wilderness, by creeping bushes and tufts of long grass – and wild poppies, strangely.

There was a creeping familiarity to it all... Eragon could recall little of his rigorous study in Ellesmera, but he had a vague recollection of flicking through a stray book on architecture... gah, why wasn't his memory better? Why couldn't he tell Dunsten era from Djârfryllian? Still there were some things Eragon could pick out – some of it was typical mid-Rider era (or was it early? It was all the same to him): most of the vast, imposing, monolithic columns were from there, with elvish glyphs scattered across the stone. Others were much younger – some trimmings on mostly-in-tact... were they shop fronts?... He shook his head in disbelief. They couldn't be much more than a hundred years old, with the elfin-inspired coils and flourishes, a trademark of the grandiose Rossetti era – the last hurrah of the Riders, before Galbatorix rose, they fell, and the Order erupted into Chaos. Then there were some pieces of stone – bits of rubble scattered across the ground – that seemed older, older than the Riders themselves, with jagged carvings on some pieces in languages he couldn't understand...

_Where the hell am I?_

He couldn't think of a place where so much ruin could be assembled together in one – not so isolated, not without being pinched or ransacked – unless – was this _Vroengard_? They said the wild poppy fields on the bleak Vroengard Isle were famous... or at least, a poem said that. Eragon wasn't sure if it was real.

Even so, this couldn't be Vroengard. Because if he turned away from the ruin, he could see the viewpoint on the vast, misty moors behind him that Heslant and him stopped at only a few days ago.

Which would mean he could get home in time.  
>Which would mean home was Vroengard.<br>Which would mean he couldn't have flown here.  
>Which would mean that Heslant was <em>right<em>.

No, that _couldn't _be right. Because that would mean Saphira was dead.

Saphira wasn't dead. Saphira couldn't be dead. Saphira didn't – could have attempted to follow him as he teleported and resulted in being crushed by the enclosing vortex created by the off-hand enchantment that Eragon or Brom or Oromis might have placed on a shiny magical item in case of near-death experience that lead him to be teleported because Eragon _didn't teleport in the first place because that made no magical sense – _

Something rustled.

Eragon spun around, and began to walk, slowly, along the crumbled path – there it was again – and Eragon turned towards it, again, moving closer. The poppy stalks shook in a sudden breeze – there, again –

Something was moving. Something – alive, breathing. It seemed to be coming from one of the buildings – one of the few with still more than half a roof on it. Eragon tentatively approached the doorway.

"Hello?" he called.

Echo.

Well, that was surprising. He walked into the building. It was empty – there was one counter, covered in cobwebs and cool, wet moss, which might have served ghosts. The old floorboards were still nailed down – even if they were half-burnt and ripped off. They creaked as he stood on them. Something else was here too; he could hear the sound of quick, shallow breathing, of a hot chest rising and falling...

A girl.

That _was_ surprising.

"Um," said Eragon. "Hi."

"...Hi," she said, biting her lip rather tenuously, looking up from behind the counter, where she was crouched on the floor. Eragon stood there, dumbstruck for a moment.

A _girl. _Well. She wasn't that much older than him, and fairly dark – although it was hard to tell in the shade.

"Who... who are you?" she asked.

"Me?" asked Eragon, almost incredulously. She didn't know who he was? But everyone... but... god. This was new. He sort of liked it, even. He didn't even have to be Eragon Shadeslayer anymore. He could be anyone in the world and she wouldn't even know.

"Is... is that a hard question?" she asked, noticing his hesitation.

"Oh – um, no, not particularly. Is it supposed to be a hard question?"

"Possibly..." she said, mumbling to herself. "I never thought about it much... bit philosophical, isn't it? _Who am I?_"

"You tell me."

"Oh," she said, swallowing again. "Well, see, I don't really have a name..."

"No name? Not even a nickname?" he asked, incredulously. "What _were_ you, raised by wolves?"

"Something along those lines," she said. Eragon gave her a look – but she didn't catch it. She was still mumbling, slightly. "I live with the gypsies – see, I just come here to explore, nothing _dangerous_ or anything –"

"What gypsies?"

"Well, isn't it, er, obvious? The ones who live here...?" she said, bemusedly. "How did you even manage to get here without bumping into them?"

"Magic."

"Oh," she said. "That's..."

"Nonsensical?"

"Well, of course. Magic doesn't make sense," she said, looking at him properly for the first time since they started speaking. "You're a bit strange, you know."

"Thanks," responded Eragon, dryly. He relaxed, shuffling about, so he was sitting down too, in the old building.

"No, it's a _good_ thing!" she insisted. "I move about – gypsies being, well, gypsies. But we only really circulate the same of superstitious northern villages, and here, every so often. Nothing south of Narda. Lots of old, beautiful ruins, and derelict buildings... but nothing, well, _magical_."

"And that's why you're here? Taste the magic?"

She smiled mischievously – deviously, even.

"I go here every so often," she explained. "Just in case there are... I dunno, ghosts or _monsters_, or something interesting. Not likely. But I just love to explore these sorts of places, because, y'know."

"I know," said Eragon, thinking suddenly of home – real home, traversing the haunted depths of the Spine, through the wilderness and the rough, seeing the _real_ world... "Trust me when I say I really, _really_ know the feeling."

"Mhmm," she replied, absently. She was smiling.

She looked very pretty when she smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Oh dear god, Eragon, what are you getting into? And yes, Morzan! Morzan Morzan Morzan! I love writing him - he is actually _so_ much fun to write! So is Heslant, but I prefer Morzan. Hee hee. Heslant just reminds me of a really, really jaded Brom. Who you think has a warm and gooey centre (like Brom does) and then you realise actually doesn't, he is just an _ass_. A likeable ass, though, I hope. This chapter was a chore to write at the beginning, although I got so into it so much that I had to divide the healer/hero section into three just to account for all the Eragon stuff. I'm actually enjoying writing Eragon when you remember to write him as a teenage buffoon as much - if not more - than a noble Rider. There's something really Scott Pilgrim about him. As for Eragon's ladyfriend (she does have a name, yes, I won't tell you it, no) she's also really fun to write too. Difficult, but fun. I often find female characters more difficult, to be honest, so this'll be a challenge I'll relish.

No numerals for this chappie, because it's timeless.


	33. What Was Lost

VII: What Was Lost

_"I hold it true, whate'er befall;_  
><em> I feel it, when I sorrow most;<em>  
><em> 'Tis better to have loved and lost<em>  
><em> Than never to have loved at all."<em>

_- Alfred Tennyson; In Memoriam_

* * *

><p>The old guard barracks were quiet. Vacant – abandoned, even – they had been unused for years, like most of the Winter Palace. The arching sandstone corridors were now only hung with strands mossy weed and forgotten footsteps. They were cloisters, once, before the soldiers marched on Ilirea; the gloomy halls were filled with silent monks, crammed into square desks, squatting over their work. That was back when religion existed and things were good, and boy, that was a <em>long<em> time ago. Of course, there was nothing much of it now, except a few tangled reminiscences, a few outdated morals, and stone.

The world echoed lightly, now, with the sound of grey, pattering rain that could have trickled on down forever, and the muffled laughter of five seventeen year old boys, and the long, lazy, drawn out stench of freshly lit marijuana, that languished there, far after it was gone...

"Hey... have you ever wondered... well, is the sky _actually_ blue?"

"Oh god, that's really funny Murtagh."

"Wait up, wait up – I haven't finished... think about it. Is the sky actually blue? Because perception is imperfect, yeah? So what we're told is blue might actually be pink or rainbow or an elephant–"

"Elephant?" said a third voice. "That sounds _really_ gay."

"No, no, no... I get you Murt...we see it as blue because we only _think _its blue... y'know, how do we know that what we think is even right?"

"How do we know there's even something to think, not nothing?" said Murtagh. "There might not even be a sky at all... we build all these crazy whacked-up theories on something that might not even exist... what even _is_ the real sky?"

"What is the real _anything?_"

"Damned if _I_ know."

And still, he was still damned if he knew. Time – contrary to popular belief – certainly didn't make questions easier; it made them more elaborate, more confusing, more chaotic – like war, in a sense. Until it all exploded, that was. Was he really that much better than the seventeen year old delinquent who smoked dope in abandoned houses (or pretended to drink copious amounts of alcohol, had punch-ups with local hooligans whilst he was there, occasionally smashing windows time to time &etc.) as seemed to be the template of well-educated, well-cultivated young men of superior breeding with far too little to do and far too much to think about? In retrospect, he wondered if he'd become wiser at all.

The old guard barracks were now used for training regimes; the war had lead to an influx of new troops – mostly begrudging conscripts – and the damp, half-derelict building was now being used as overflow recruit training grounds. The sound of clanging swords, stumbling footwork, and breezy chatter could be heard from the outside. He grimaced. He much preferred the place when it was only a collection of memories.

Within a minute of entering, the entire building was silent.

People turned and stared, with a few fluttered whispers – "is that... that Morzan's _son_?" – before the words trickled out to silence. They then remembered to stand up, erect, sudden, their arms jerking into firm salutes.

(Sir yes sir!)

None of them had the guts to say it aloud, of course.

_And they honestly wonder why I'm so reluctant to be amiable._

Murtagh did not look at the men as he walked past. They'd be dead the next day.

(Or the day after that. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera – did he _really_ need to go on?)

What difference did a day, a week, a month, a year, a lifetime and a half make? If each day was the same – drill, after drill, after drill, after drill, after drill, after – then what was one from two from three? One life plus one life was nothing. Because, after all, they were all going to die screaming in their own blood. And it all ended happily ever after. And Murtagh had to stay and watch.

Why didn't he just kill them all now?

It probably would have been kinder to. Most of the standard recruits came from insignificant 'burnable' villages, gypsy caravans, or worse, the dredges of the city slums. Usually undernourished, underemployed, and always incredibly, incredibly desperate – these were men _willing_ to shave off half their limbs. Or sometimes, not. But nobody cared about them. Conscripts never had any families that would miss them. That was why they were conscripts.

He admired them, strangely enough. They weren't cowards. Perhaps roll the cynicism clock back five years (fifty, more likely) and he would have rallied behind them, calling himself in private a 'man of the people' – of course, he'd mention in public, 'people' counted as only those who _worked_ and earned their way up. He was a blue-blooded noble, after all – the possibility of the scroungers being incapable of working did not cross his mind, and even if it had done, it would be scandalous to mention it aloud. (Him? A socialist? A little bit too left-leaning, perhaps, but oh, that was a funny joke.)

But as things were, Murtagh just pitied the fact that they were going to die. Or tried to. Really, he just felt nothing for them.

It reminded him of a spare piece of advice he'd been given, back when wars and conflict and dragons and kings were only a distant future: it would happen, but not _yet_. Something about cruelty and anger and frustration and rage – those kind of things; the memory was painfully vague – not being a measure of inhumanity; but lack of guilt, but apathy, but killing so many goddamn times that it makes no difference anymore – "That's when you become stop being human. When you can rip someone's heart out and still feel absolutely _nothing_."

It was the most relevant piece of advice he'd been given. It had also been given by a homicidal maniac. Who was none other than his alcoholic father.

The elf would have understood. She would have understood the irony – she _would_ have understood how vile and bitter it was to taste. _Arya; Arya; Arya; Arya; Arya... Malena; Malena; Malena; Malena... _the names were wonderful to recite, even now. She'd been painfully distant since she'd returned... from wherever she had been. Murtagh had no idea what had even happened – he'd popped out for five minutes, left a short note (only three words), returned, only to find it unopened, and her, well, she'd vanished. Disappeared. Completely. Without a trace, without a clue, without a word.

Murtagh had nearly thought she was dead.

Then she appeared again, unconscious on the serving kitchen floor – why there, of all places, he couldn't understand; he'd _checked_ there too. Four times. Had she become invisible? To him – the only man in the world that could see her, (thank god that he could)? She might disappear again one day. She might disappear for weeks. For months. For years.

She might never even come back.

_Oh god._

Not that it mattered, of course. They didn't even talk anymore. Not like they used to. It was partially his fault – everything was partially his fault. But she... she was lost in a wild dream of her own that he could barely comprehend. Perhaps never. Oh well.

It still hurt though.

* * *

><p>The days passed by slowly. The sun would rise; the sun would set. And in between, there was nothing.<p>

A few things would change. The shadows would move. She would watch them shift, silently, as they grew longer, thinner, creeping towards her. A lost mayfly might float haphazardly into the room, floating upwards from the mirror; it would be greeted with a slap. The austere grandfather clock, stooped in the corner of the reception room, would tick – tick – tick – tick. Each and every second, she would hear the prise needle twitch – twitch – twitch – twitch. It was a hollow, scratchy sound that tingled at the back of her neck, as if the needle was scratching down it repeatedly. Each second. Every second.

Arya was usually not one for questioning. Her mother highly disapproved of the practice – this was this and that was that and this was not that. Arya was her daughter and therefore would look and think and speak and act like her. That was crux of motherhood, no? No. No questions required. That was one of the few things Arya had genuinely inherited from her – a dislike of pondering, questioning, thinking more than you _needed_. Thinking was dangerous. Thinking would get you killed in magical accidents the day before your daughter's first birthday.

But she couldn't help herself. She couldn't honestly help herself. As she watched the shadows move during the day, and the walls and floors gather dust, each and every second, in this cacophonous, this deafening, this loud, loud, insufferably loud silence, she couldn't help question, for the very first time.

_How did I get here?_

_Why can't others see me?_

_Why can I hear things which no one else can?_

_Why can't I use magic anymore?_

_Where is the 'Summer Palace'?_

_Who is the actor?_

_Who is the Master?_

_Who is the blonde-haired boy?_

_What roles are they playing in this game?_

_Are they really there?_

_Are they really real?_

_Can I trust my senses at all?_

_Am I really here at all? _

It always led to the last two questions. The answer to the first one was clearly a 'no'. By the traditional definition, she was clearly insane. But – that must have been wrong, since Arya wasn't _mad. _Mad people were senseless and wild, foaming at the mouth, little more than rabid animals to be shot; mad people were barbaric and inhumane and had wacky names like 'Galbatorix' and 'Morzan' and killed thousands of people in cold blood; mad people were hopelessly depressed and smiled like the sun when they felt like killing themselves and had fluttery and soft names like 'Malena' and cried at night with cold, glassy eyes that could no longer see after human soldiers gouged the real ones out. For their collections, they said.

If she couldn't trust her senses, mad or not, it meant the answer to the last question was a 'maybe'. It might have been a simple 'no' if it weren't for Murtagh. Who was the enigma in this all – because Murtagh was definitely real, and could definitely see her, smell her, feel her, touch her; he had only done it a thousand times before.

At least, he had done.

Something had changed, on those lengthy, exhausting August days. Perhaps it was the regiments of soldiers marching beneath her window, 9 o'clock sharp, each crisp August morning; perhaps it was the whisper-mongering of the servants – Arya slipped past them, completely invisible, completely forgettable, completely alone – alit with spicy gossip of Masters returning and golden eras beginning and long-forgotten victory.

Perhaps it was empty bedsheets, the book covers gathering dust.

(It was the sheet. In the bedroom. Death by asphyxiation.)

Murtagh barely flitted in and out of his quarters. When he did, it was to go to his study, with a pile of files, and lock the door. He sometimes ate lunch with her – making polite conversation, quipping a stale joke, much like the paltry, undercooked salmon they were nibbling, or perhaps a thrice-used anecdote about something insignificant. He did not touch her. If he did – by accident, his shuffling fingers would brush softly against hers as he passed her by – he would pull away, suddenly, and shake his head, laughing weakly to himself, at a joke she did not understand. There was something – broken – hesitant – about him. Ever since he started working.

"No – of course not – I'm not – how could you even _say_ that? _Are you avoiding me?_ I could ask you the same question." He said, one day, his shoulders tensing and his fingers twitching and his mouth forming a twisted grimace between words.

Arya said nothing in response. She looked at her feet instead.

"Besides, that's not true – you know that's not true... I would never..."he cut himself off, swallowing as if his own words were choking him. _"_Look – I'm clearly busy – can't we talk about this later? _Please_?"

He cut her off before she could respond with 'no'. Later meant never, of course. Even Arya knew that. Even _Murtagh_ knew that.

There were a few other telling habits. The illegal newspapers which he now habitually carried about began to build up in the reception room. Headlines – big, bold, and shakily printed by a frantic press in a dingy basement – plastered over table tops and arm rests. "The Empire Strikes Back", said one, its date smudged, with details of the recapture of Belatona on page four. "Naval Forces Invade Feinster," noted another, with a pinched quote from General Lockwood on the insurgence of piracy and the need to crack down thoroughly on 'bandits and hooligans'. "Elves officially withdraw from Civil War", noted another, the date still smudged. "Onslaught at Cenuon" was the title of the crispest paper, barely fingered.

"Anything worth banning is anything worth reading," explained Murtagh quickly, one evening, dangling his fork over a piece of drizzled honey-roast, contemplating prodding it. "You see, I've been thinking for a bit – I probably ought to at least pretend to be _slightly_ interested in what the general populous actually thinks of the war. Embrace the role of it all... and all... "

He dropped his fork. He shook his head, mumbling self-consciously: "Apologies, I'm talking to myself again, aren't I?" and left the table. It wasn't as if she ever said anything when they ate, anyway. She was terrible company.

And there was even more: his hair was longer – wilder – still, tumbling just past his shoulders, curling slightly with length. He left flowering buds of wild daisies and fresh poppies, deflowered, beheaded, sawn from a foreign field so distant, so far, far away, and stuffed them into used whiskey bottles. The ornamental ash tray placed redundantly in the reception room had been used; it had been thoroughly scrubbed and cleaned, evidence removed, but the smell of tobacco still lingered.

"You don't smoke."

"Ah," he said. "I started when you weren't here."

"You _stink_ of tobacco_._"

"You're very subtle, Miss-Smells-Like-Pine-Needles."

She ignored him. She might have laughed had he said it two weeks ago.

"You shouldn't smoke," she said.

"I know."

"It's really a disgusting habit," she said, reiterating her point.

He looked at her intently. "_I know_."

End of conversation.

Sometimes Murtagh would not come into his quarters at all until the small hours of the morning, in the eerie quiet of the night, draped in a thick, soaking riding cloak, face torn with exhaustion, gauntlets stained red, fingers shivering and wet. His sword was unsheathed, tied against his hip. It would be covered in blood – you could tell from how it shimmered in the candlelight, how it glistened like the stars. Arya knew better than to ask.

Then there was sex.

They fucked once. He started it, walking past, with an awkward touch, a scrape, a hand delicately brushing the edge of her hair... and then suddenly he was pressing against her, pressing her into the floor, and they were ripping each other's clothes off violently; discarding the wrapping, as they had done before, and would do again and again and again –

It was boring. Monotonous, and boring.

There was no: "What happened?". There was no talking about it. The worst thing about terrible sex was the no talking after terrible sex; no conversations swept away by crisp autumn leaves, smelling of ground earth and hazelnuts cracked open, with a taste, a slither of red berry... those leaves had withered into dust. And those thick, enchanted forests were now stripped bare.

There were no long, drawn out conversations beneath the bedsheets; casual discussion about obscure Surdan philosophy or weird vegetarian food or poetry they both hated and religion (they both hated it) – all the little nothings that anyone could ever think. They wouldn't talk as themselves – not the Elfin Princess and the son of the First Forsworn, but they wouldn't talk as _Murtagh_ and _Arya_ would either – whoever those people actually were, anyway.

The following evening, front door slammed open. Jerkin open, shirt sleeves rolled up, soaked in sweat. He staggered in. He looked utterly miserable.

"You've been drinking."

He glared at her, expression furious – but turned away. He slammed the door. He slumped into an armchair. He threw his hands over his face, and made a low growling sound.

"Why do you even _care?_"

"I was just commenting."

"No you weren't."

The worst thing was that he was right. He was completely right.

They sat quietly for the rest of the evening. He read the paper. She closed her eyes, and sighed.

Arya took in a deep intake of breath. It was too silent. Where was the music – the crooning song that shook her very soul? Where was the weeping of violins, the tootling of flutes, the twisted chords that swept her upwards and flourished in the darkness of the mind? Where were those grandiose, wild epic melodies – melodramatic, perhaps – but so passionately so – where was the Masque?

The Midnight Masque. Arya was so certain that she had seen it, in all its insane majesty, in all its sparkling colours and fantastical music – but she couldn't recall a memory of it. Not a word uttered, not a line spoken – only the music, music which was still hauntingly familiar...

_The Starlight Symphony._

Of course – the actor had mentioned it; the actor in the golden mask, erupting in flames, with a smile so horrific and eyes so haunting, beautiful, even; she could barely recall him now, it was fading away so quickly – however much she grasped onto it... The fragmented memories of her evening at the Summer Palace were dancing around her and quite probably driving her mad.

She knew this. She was aware of this.

She didn't care.

Maybe Arya cared about her sanity and her wellbeing and her 'soul' once – perhaps, thirty one years ago, maybe. But ultimately Murtagh was wrong – she didn't care what happened to her. She could go to hell and back and she wouldn't care. She already had. She was a botched product after all. Broken. Senseless.

_I want to go back._

She wanted to go back – back to the time of Midnight balls, back to the glistening world of Masked Masques; feasts for the soul. Back to when living still meant something.

"_Wish granted." _

And with a flash (or the wave of a wand?) she disappeared.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: No prizes for guessing what three words Murtagh's note said. If you have any doubt, refer to prior chapter's quote; a similar note is written in 1984 from Julia to Winston.

Sorry for being slow with this. Suffered Writer's block; good thing though, eventually. I now have a very clear direction for this - and it interestingly brings me back closer to my original plan that I had before. Chapter is a bit religious. And political (if you wondered about the whole 'getting high' section, it was a mild reference - google 'Bullingdon club'). I'll warn you: it might get worse (especially on the religious side). This fic always inteded to have messages in it. It was never meant to be feel-good-fuzzy-time. Apologies for semi-colon abuse (to be honest, I abuse dashes so much that it doesn't matter); I have discovered Virginia Woolf. I am never going back to the light side _ever again_. Muhahaha!

**Witchy Pixie**: Oh god, tell me about it (on Morzan being a ridiculously sexy bastard). You can feel bad with me too. It makes writing him actually really difficult, since I'm tempted to make him into a Sue at times (no worries, I can resist temptation ;D). And thank you very much! I wish I could have written the Cycle... it'd certainly mean I'd be able to afford college fees ._.


	34. Colours of the Moon

VIII: Colours of the Moon

_"A shadow of a shadow," - Galbatorix, on Murtagh._

* * *

><p>The water was orange, flowing from the fountain; the evening sun brushed the courtyard red. A handsome town house – perhaps a 'petit' mansion, at a push – stooped in the backdrop, white walls strangled with ivy; it might have been quite fashionable in its heyday, but now was relegated to antiquity, and vast, dancing memories. For now, all that could be heard was the slow trickle of liquid – no birds were in the sky. Or dragons.<p>

Arya did not understand how she came to be standing here. She was curled up in an armchair in Murtagh's Quarters literally moments ago...

"Ah, you're early!"

Arya swung around. Behind her, decked in a noble adventurer's attire – thrice buckled boots, a loose silk shirt, and a swashbuckling knee-length coat – stood a familiar figure. Only the fantastic golden mask, a burst firework of feathers and colour, reminded her that he was the actor she had seen before.

"Pleased to see me?" he asked, with a soft chuckle. "Actually – don't answer that. But my – you _are_ keen – the guests usually don't arrive for some time yet. We're the only ones here, actually, at the moment. Just you and me."

Arya looked at him quizzically.

"Where am I?" she asked.

"The Summer Palace, of course – "

"No _specifically. _Where am I? Where is..." her hands gestured vaguely at her surrounds, at the view of a gleaming white-walled city in the distance, trying to grasp the exact words. "... this place?"

The actor sighed exaggeratedly.

"You ask such _impossible _questions. This place hardly begins to make an ounce of sense – it's quasi-magical, after all–"

"So this place doesn't exist, then?"

"No – not once did I ever insinuate that. In fact, I told you the _exact_ opposite literally evenings ago. This "place" is real – as real as Ellesmera or Uru'baen, so if you please, madam Drottingu..."

He trailed off.

His smile faded, for a moment.

"Fuck," he said quietly.

For a good few minutes, there was stony silence.

After a while, he reached deep within his coat pocket, his fingers fumbling over something inside; he pulled out a small, battered case. He pulled out a pipe out, and emptied some tobacco into it.

"Do you mind...?" he asked, tentatively.

Arya shook her head.

"Ah," he said, his voice catching alight. "But your face definitely says no – that's one disgusted scowl right there you're failing to hide. Does smoking particularly offend you? Actually..." he paused, fingers "... not just disgusted, but _livid._ Dear I propose a harmless suggestion to smile more? You look much prettier when you do."

She looked at him, baffled.

"Apologies – ignore half the _shit_ that escapes out of my mouth – I don't believe half of it either..."

He trailed off again, sighing wearily. He lit his pipe – with a click of his fingers, Arya noted – and took a long, slow drag. After a moment, he blew out a trail of smoke high into the air, shooting upwards like a dragon.

"Sorry – I..." he said, before shaking his head thoroughly, as if to shake something off. "I always have trouble staying in character this early on. Very on-off, usually. It's actually why I'm always the first here – so I can prepare properly, and get fully acquainted with myself, break into my shoes... or boots, as the case might be. After that, playing is a breeze."

He took another puff of his pipe, then, this time letting the smoke escape more slowly, forming a hazier, thinner film of tobacco. Arya tightened her fists, trying not to cough.

"It's nerves, I think. That's why I always keep this –" he tapped his pipe "– to hand, even if I don't use it that much anymore. I know – I know – an accomplished actor actually allows himself to get _nervous_ – regularly, too – over the prospect of what he does best. It's ridiculous. Still haven't grown out of the habit, after all this time, ah well."

"Why do you act if you hate it so much?" she then asked.

"I don't..." he cut off, before giving a weak smile. "You're much more perceptive than you look, I'll give you that."

"If I was so perceptive, I'd understand whether this place is real or not by now." She glared at him. "But I don't."

"That's because your thinking is too clear cut. Real or not real. Does or does not exist. Yes or no. What about maybe, eh? It's not all black and white, you know – I dearly wish it was, but then again, I'd dearly miss the oranges, the golds, the virulent purples – all the colours of the moon – "

"The moon is grey," said Arya. The man was clearly absurd.

"No – it's silver. And that," he said, drawing away with a distant smile, "Makes all the difference in the world... You're looking at me oddly."

"You're very... _theatrical._"

"I bet I remind you too much of your mother," he said.

Arya stared at him.

"You don't think I'm telling the truth at all, don't you? Really, I don't blame you. Much. I'm not exactly what one would consider the epitome of trustworthy–"

"Shut up, please."

"Fine."

He clicked his fingers, and his pipe went out. He put it away. Ribbons of smoke still tangled in the air; you could wrap them around your fingers. The two of them stood silently, watching the yellow sun sink behind high, trellis bound walls.

"Can you smell that? Sweet, eh? It must be the patisserie uptown – downtown is impermissible here, you must understand, the Palace refuses to coexist with such a fraudulent rabble... mind, their Ilirean pastries are devilishly good..."

A moment passed. The remaining wisps of tobacco smoke, coiling around the hibiscus, slithered away.

"Why don't I remember anything?" she asked.

"Remember what?"

"I can't remember the Masque. I can't remember a minute of it."

"Ah," he said.

"I – I was _sure_ I was there, too. I'm not making this up – I honestly – I'm _certain._"

"You know, some philosophers would argue that there's a different 'soul' inhabiting your body for every living second, and memory is merely a magic trick, made to fraud your own fragile mind into the delusion that it's always been there, before it disappears within an instant – swallowed whole, by the clutches of oblivion. There is a depressing existence."

A cold silence.

"Are you sure you're sure of mind?" he asked.

"Certain," repeated Arya.

(But she flinched as she said it.)

The actor frowned.

"What was it like?" he asked, curious.

"What?"

"The Masque?"

"Wonderful," she said without hesitation. "Absolutely wonderful."

"Oh," he said, his lips lighting up with a smile. "It _was_, wasn't it? The finale was stunning, as usual, and my – if I collected half the tears the audience shed, I could fill up the sea itself – soft touches, the audience, if they've warmed to you. It's a bit of a travesty you can't recall a thing, isn't it?"

A gap.

"I would have liked to have seen it, if only once–"

"But you _have _seen it."

"What's the use of that if I can't remember it?"

The actor's mouth twitched, as if he disagreed. He shuddered briefly.

"You never particularly struck me much as a theatre admirer."

"No, that I'm not... "

"I can invite you again, you realise?" he said with a smile.

"You... can?"

"Of _course_ I can." He drew closer to her. "I invited you before – don't you recall me telling you?"

"No – I don't."

"Silly girl. Silly, silly girl," he muttered, his long, delicate fingers now combing through strands of her hair. "I wrote the music, did I not? That fabulous starlight symphony that tinkled away in your head, whisked away your world off its feet, took you to a better place... I did that, didn't I?"

"You didn't tell me that."

"Yes I did. I suppose you don't remember that, do you now?"

She looked at him, at his dark, treacherous eyes – (they _must_ have been treacherous, she could feel it, such big, beautiful things were so rarely pure...), and a familiar question braced her lips.

"But... how?"

He grinned.

"_Magic,_" he whispered, into her ear. "Not as you know it. Not as the elves tell it in their faerie stories – that's no more than a twisted mockery, a bastardised _farce_. True magic – real magic – that's something so, so much more than words_._ You wouldn't believe – you couldn't imagine – of course, you _don't! _– it can shift continents with a fragile breeze, make mountains with a brush of a fingertip, and with a whisper, paint the sky with colours you've never seen before – and you don't believe a word of it, don't you?"

He drew away to meet her eyes in a strange, solemn gaze which said so much more than words could tell.

Arya couldn't stifle a nervous smile. "No... frankly, I don't think I do."

"Oh hell, you're so _honest. _It's beautiful. I mean – I come from a liar's profession, naturally, so it's rather... refreshing." He chuckled prettily. "You've heard music only that you can hear. You're standing in a beautiful mansion that you've transported to for absolutely no reason aside from _wanting_ to be. _Think _about it, Drottingu. Take a _look_ at what you're actually seeing."

"I..." she stopped, and frowned. The courtyard shimmered a little in the silken breeze. In the distance, she could hear the patter of distracted footsteps – possibly a few plain-skirted servants skimming the marble floor. It was so calm here – so far from the disorderly and violent world which she came from, polluted with questions and considerations. She shivered a little. Her bare feet were slightly chilly resting on chalky patio slabs; it was cooler than sweltering Uru'baen, pleasantly so. She reached down to lightly touch the ground – her hand bristled against the rough-edged surface, the grit tickled her fingers. It's real_, _she thought. It's _really_ she bent up again, something caught the corner of her eye – trickling – that didn't look right at all.

"It – it's the fountain," she said. "Something's wrong with it."

The actor's thin lips pressed into a wide smile.

"The water," she said. "It's dripping over the edge – but it's not going anywhere. There's no drain. There's no muddy puddle. It's just... disappearing?"

"Close," he said. "But not completely there."

She stepped towards the fountain, three tiers of dripping stone, and gently stroked the trail of falling water.

"It's... going up..."

Behind her, black coat flapping, floated in the actor, like a shadow, his arm tracing across her shoulder, calligraphy curling over her skin.

"Taste it."

His voice shuddered low against her ear, lilting with the tide, his breath warm and wet and... She hesitated.

"Go on," he said. "You won't be disappointed."

She glanced at him – briefly – swallowing – and placed a poised finger, dabbed in water, between her lips. As she did, the trailing water jets changed from translucent amber, scorned by the setting sun, to a thick, plentiful burgundy, rippling upwards with the sudden, luxuriant musk of fine dining and moonlit nights intoxicating the air. They swirled upwards, swerving into nonsensical patterns and trills, coiling out into a brief, recognisable pattern, letters, words, _it's delicious, isn't it? _

"Châteaux Rosé, circa 1440 – obviously, famous for their Rosé, although I think their classic red is somewhat underrated, don't you?"

_Isn't it, Madame Drottingu? Please say yes; I would be quite delighted if you did. _

"Yes," she mouthed, unable to muster the words.

_Quite fashionable nowadays, but so are all vintage pieces, aren't they? Very dry as it goes. Sardonic wine, they call it – height of modern sophistication, indeed – and are you paying the slightest bit of attention to me Malena?_

She spun around. The man in the golden mask was stood up – when did he stand up? – looming over her, smiling insidiously.

"Oh, we're not done yet."

He grasped her left palm – she shrieked, loudly, but he didn't let go, he kept fierce grip of her hand – and put it in his right one.

"Make a wish. _Go on_."

She didn't even manage to mumble a syllable. From beneath the craggy patio, bumps and humps twisted upwards, entangled, gnarling, wicked things, roots ensnared; and then came the creeping ivy, the sweet honeysuckle against white walls and rolling trellis that thickened, entangling itself around deep throats of chiselled bark, spilling upwards into curtains of shimmering leaves, tingling with thick, pulsing veins; overhanging the sky, darkening into royal colours; blazing scarlet and gold that crumbling bark that her feet were now sunk in, in a carpet of dewy leaves, that had fallen from the heavens that now existed, one, by one, by one, by one...

He let go of her hand. It fell limp by her side, as she couldn't help gaping...

"Oh, _god_."

It was he who was saying the words. She couldn't say anything, she couldn't say anything, the words had been swept away by a sudden breeze, crisp and sharp, smelling of the sweet, ripened berries fresh for plucking, and the musk of dead pine needles crushed into the earth...

"Oh god, _this_ is interesting."

She was still silent. The fountain was still spilling out heavy wine behind her, red and thick, but that was only a translucent reminder of what was once there – because they weren't _there_ anymore – but _here_ – hidden in beneath branches of orange, grew an autumnal forest, far, far away from anywhere she had ever been.

"This isn't real," said Arya. But she was shivering, the thick, draping velvet of her dress shuffling against her knees, blowing, in the slight mist-born wind – a breeze that smelt and felt unmistakably real...

"Magic. This is magic."

His boots made no sound as the slid across the wet brown leaves, and soaking earth.

"This," he said, unclenching his hand, revealing a small crystal inside, a butterfly net of starshine, _unmistakably_ identical to the crystal that Murtagh owned, twinkle greedily, "Is what it can do."

Arya shuddered at the light – it was too bright.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, tersely.

"_I_ didn't do anything – _you _did the work. _You_ wanted this. _You _wanted to be here. Magic is only the limits of your imagination, after all. You want something – you wish very hard – upon a star, upon a an object or a potion or a desire, upon something as insignificant as a–" he fingered the crystal between his forefinger and thumb, pausing to look faux-curiously, before his engorging eyes snapped back to Arya, and he smiled, "a family heirloom, say. Not particularly significant. You just want to _want_ it."

"You mean to say," said Arya, slowly. "That all this... all this chaos... I _wanted_ it?"

"Or somebody else did. I provided the music – but the rest, ah... not me. What reason would I have to fabricate this? I only drew you in because you seemed – ah – _interesting_."

But then again, why would anyone think of Arya? Why would anyone care to think of her? Why would anyone wilfully pull an already invisible elf into real invisibility, into chaos, into madness that she had convinced herself she had made.

"Oh god," she murmured, aloud, barely, her lips quivering in the mist. Was it her? Was all of this – all of this chaos, all of these wonderful, terrifying dreams, floating down like dead autumn leaves, gold and grey, were they really just _her?_

_Was she mad?_

"How is that possible?" she asked. "Why isn't this happening everywhere? Why isn't this happening all the time?"

"No one believes in the old magics anymore. Folklore. Fairy tales. Whimsical dreams. Trite concerns. No one's believed in any of this being possible in a long, long time. And even if they did – even if they _wanted_ it to be true – because I suspect many of them do – there's one crucial condition to this all."

"Oh?"

"Inheritance. Capabilities pass through the blood. Fathers and sons. Mothers and daughters. Purity, ancestry, creed – it's of the essence of the thing. Different bloodlines have different capabilities; some are stuck with cheap sorcery, others flimsy illusions, and others... others can shift continents, can shape worlds, others can pull you into vast, autumnal daydreams, misty horizons..."

"I did this," said Arya.

"Yes." He replied anyway, even though it wasn't a question.

"How?"

"I don't know."

The response was silent. No birds chittered, no squirreling feet pattered, no shuffling of tails and twitching of whiskers, no prickly creepy-crawlies slithered along the autumn floor. This was a forest with no other creatures but themselves.

"It shouldn't work," he said, swinging back and forward on the balls of his feet, arms strapped inside of his pockets. "It honestly shouldn't work – and that's what makes you _interesting_. Elves aren't... of the correct 'standing', shall we say? No 'worthy' connections to the _glorious_ elder families – not in the slightest, they'd rather slit their throats, those old cads..."

He trailed off.

"It shouldn't work for you at all. Magic, I mean. _Proper _magic. Elves weren't made for magic; never were, never will. And for an entire institution built up on Inheritance and cultivated breeding and royalty, that's... unfeasible. Completely unfeasible. Do you understand? One drop of impure blood can ruin generations of work. It's why the ancient magician clans formed in the first place – great, terrible things they were, you couldn't even begin to imagine, how _horrifying _and _wonderful_..."

The elf watched him with attentive eyes.

"The Ancient Language – it formed to counter them, you know? I bet you didn't. But you know now. Even then, it only took a good few thousand years before the Riders built up to slay every single bloody hand with their own; a cycle of bloodlust – now _there's_ something that hasn't changed. Didn't work – you're talking of men that built Empires with their fingertips, fought wars over fires thousand years old, under seas miles deep, wrote music to make the ears _weep_ with joy... you're talking of gods incarnate. Because that's what these men were. Are. No – _Were_. No, the Clans just went into hiding, and even as the Riders skulked the boundaries of the Empire, blazed 'sympathetic' villages to the ground, just to scour them – they never won the war. Never. War's still drumming on, even now. You wouldn't believe it, now, but Galbatorix and the Varden are just puppets of graveyard ghosts. Arguing over interpretations of thousand-year-old-texts which no one gives a _flying fuck_ about now. Typical human – even _more_ typical elf – behaviour. Petty squabbles."

"What happened?"

"What?"

"The Clans – you said _were._"

The actor smiled, briefly.

"Inheritance. Inheritance is the key. The Clans valued their purity to a fault. Countless generations of inbreeding killed it, and even then, the magic decided to wane by itself – each generation was weaker, less potent, less _pure_ than the original. Perhaps they began to think of past as myth and magic – I couldn't blame them myself. There's nothing left of them now; they died out as the Riders did, ironically enough. Nothing but from forgotten burial grounds, grave stones in the Northern wastes. You probably couldn't even read the inscriptions; it's all a dead language now, rotting away... makes you bitter, no?"

There was short pause. A few dewy leaves fell in the space between.

"How do you know this, if it's all dead?"

"Everything in the Masque is dead, Malena. Even me."

Arya did not quite hear this. Because she swore he told her he was dead. Which was a lie.

"Then..." she swallowed. Her fingers shivered, a little, curled up into nervous tangles. "Then... why... what..."

"This forest is your fantasy. Hadn't you guessed? You made it just now, correct?"

A crack.

Arya span around.

"It's fairly flimsy, as it goes. Nothing in comparison to the Summer Palace. That was made by the old Master – _the_ Master, before you ask, there was only ever one – only ever could be – the Palace has languished in the days waiting – waiting, it's most arduous! – for a successor. For years and years and years... alas, no one has been worthy of the _Inheritance – _yet – but in the mean time, we have actors and plays and delights beyond desire to whither the nights away..."

Arya began walking forwards.

"Drottingu, is there... ah, a problem?"

She ignored him.

"There's little scope outside of this pocket. You'd fall straight through the sky if you tried walking any further – "

In the rising mist, ribbons of smoke, figures could be seen shadowing across the distance.

"Malena?"

Naked forms moving across bare earth, broken berries, and snapping branches...

"_Malena?"_

Two long, lean figures, angled and sharp...

"Arya?"

Hands were touching...

"_Arya?_"

Was that – could she hear – laughter? _Laughter? _Was that magic still possible?

"_ARYA ARYA ARYA ARYA ARYA ARYA – "_

* * *

><p>She appeared.<p>

Out of nowhere. Like magic.

"Arya."

The word dropped out of his mouth like a stone.

She said nothing, her mouth hung oh-so-slightly agape, her ziz-zag eyes pinched open, oh-so-slightly awake, her skin glistening, cool to the touch, as Murtagh's hands moved over it, grabbing her suddenly, gripping her in his arms and refusing to let go, _refusing_, not even if she started screaming –

She didn't. She didn't say anything.

Did she know how much she made him worry? Did she care? Didn't she realise – didn't she _realise_ – how disconcerting, how terrifying it was, for her to disappear, without meaning, without reason? And then he'd spend five. Agonising. Hours. He'd spend those hours diving through deep-sea chests, slamming wardrobes open and shut again, lighting up candles in forgotten rooms, skulking the creaking floorboards of his vast, unopened quarters – areas which he deliberately did not go to – to find her. Except, he wouldn't find her. He never would. In the end, he'd be stuck on his knees, a trite ornmanet, a family heirloom – a crystal – enwrapped in his hand, and he'd wish, oh god, how he'd _pray_, so very hard, so very, very hard.

He'd nearly scream her name.

Murtagh was used to not having control. He wasn't used to being unable to pretend, though.

Didn't she realise how _belittling_ it was? How small – how sad – it felt? Because she could have disappeared for days – months – years – decades – twenty years could have passed by like yesterday – lifetimes –

She might have never returned. He couldn't bear to live with himself if that had happened.

Waiting. And Waiting. And Waiting. And Waiting.

Murtagh wasn't made for waiting. He had no patience for it.

"Arya," he muttered, tenderly, in the cusp her ear.

(He had forgotten about Malena. Then again, so did everyone).

She didn't react.

She never said anything these days.

He could have nearly laughed.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Urgh, sorry. Writer's block hit this one hard. I hate info-dumpy chapters. I hate lore. I wish I hadn't included half of this shit.

In other news:

o Wide Sargasso Sea is a great book but pretty much has half my ideas. And then wrote them a thousand times better. Thank _god_ this wasn't a corrective fanfic of Jane Eyre. (Jane Eyre is an awful _awful_ book D:)  
>o Early Red Hot Chili Peppers is <em>sick<em>. Literally, just bursting with energy and irreverent fun. Give me Mother's Milk and Freakey Styley over Stadium Arcadium every day. Other things I currently like: DJ Krush, The Smiths, Sonic Youth, Robotaki. I am going through a huge music phase at the moment, humour me :P


	35. Walk

IX: Walk

_"Did you say the stars were worlds, Tess?"_

_"Yes."_

_"All like ours?"_

_"I don't know; but I think so. They sometimes seem to be like the apples on our stubbard-tree. Most of them splendid and sound-a few blighted."_

_"Which do we live on-a splendid one or a blighted one?"_

_"A blighted one."_

_- Thomas Hardy, Tess of the D'Urbervilles_

* * *

><p>It got worse.<p>

It was not a sickness. That would imply that it would go away, fade with time, not dwindle, not peter out, not worsen, not twist and deform into misshapen, broken forms, like drooling candlewax, shivering in the dark. In the cold. (Her skin was so very cold; its' brief touch made his crawl. How had he not noticed that before?)

She had become a shadow. A silent moth, drawn to a far-off, distant flame, galaxies away. Stuck here. Staring stupid at the stars.

She would eat, of course – she always ate when he offered. But she did not talk to him – not _to_ him. Sometimes at him, though, sometimes mutterings about autumn leaves lost in season, or an occasional question about the state of the weather and political affairs – airily voiced, not at anyone in particular. She did not look at him. She only answered _his_ questions when probed. They slept in the same bed, as they had before, but they did not touch.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. They still fucked now and again.

There was something nostalgic about it – the desperate clinging, the repetitive pounding, the painful thrum of again and again and again and again and _again._ It reminded him of those first desperate, nauseating encounters when he first touched her quivering body (and he too – he was shaking then) – except... not. Because this time, it was only he who was clutching her, grabbing at her cool, pale, deathly flesh, smelling of sweet earth and broken gravestones and roaring wind, pulling nights thousands of miles away to his nostrils.

She didn't belong to this world anymore.

If he was unsure of whether she was mad before, he was certain now. The strange, hypnotic girl in the scarlet dress, ragged hair aflutter past her ears, a lost song pressed on her lips, mumbling, sometimes incomprehensibly, and smiling, sometimes incomprehensibly, smiling about something that wasn't him.

He felt ashamed every single time he wanted to crush that smile off her lips. Because he did. Because he wanted to crush her.

It was the sort of thing Morzan might have thought of.

Murtagh, in reality, was completely aware of his slow transition to a weak-willed, helpless, desperate, abusive, paranoid, misogynistic monster. About damn time, said the fates.

He left glasses out out, pining liquor still fresh inside bottle-necks, and goblets upturned on mantelpieces, cupboards, rolling sideways along tables. Tables she used, tables she clumsily placed her feet on, tables she would write long, sighing letters to no one on in dried ink, before she ripped the paper to pieces. He would return home drunk – rip-roaring, aggressively drunk, absolutely hammered, _stupidly_ drunk – because god, his survival was the last damn _thing_ he cared about any more. Not since Thorn stopped talking to him.

(Thorn stopped talking to him, did he mention that? No, he didn't. Because he had. He'd stopped talking to Murtagh. He had shut up and Murtagh hadn't even noticed. He had stopped talking to him weeks ago, months, even. And Murtagh didn't even know if he cared any more. God, the stars were laughing at him – wheezy guffaws, sniggers at the back, bowling over with bouncing, blubbering laughter – oh god, it was all so _stupid._)

Of course, she didn't pay the slightest note of attention. She didn't even care when he was drunk in her face. There was no fierce, outspoken argument. There was no rage. There was no accusation – no screaming – no 'Stop-trying-to-pretend-you're-your-father-when-you're-clearly-nothing-like-him' 'You-never-knew-my-father-how-can-you-judge' 'You're-trying-to-be-what-he-was-supposed-to-be-like:-a-dick. So-stop-it'. There were no niggling remarks, irritated sighs, disgust – as before.

(_As before! As before! As bloody better before!_)

She didn't care, probably. She was probably too insane to know what caring was. She was certainly too insane to know what living was. Too broken. Too strange. Too alien. Too... too _elfin._

He should hate her. That was the funny thing: he didn't. He should have – perhaps he might have, if he were a few years older, and 'wiser', he might have brushed her calmly aside, her, the lunatic, little more than a tame animal, and realised that she didn't have any feelings anymore, that she wasn't human anymore (she was never human, never, never human to start with -)

But he couldn't.

His rationale told him that he cared too much. That was his 'weakness'. That was his 'pathetic excuse'. That was 'why he was here' in the first place. That was something that he could never change.

(Could he?)

But it wasn't as laughably simple as that. Because he already had changed.

* * *

><p>The nights were the worst.<p>

In the nights, she would disappear. Slink away into the shade. And he would be left, aching, in the sweltering heat, burning alive. Murtagh had never adapted to the dry, dense Augusts in Uru'baen. They were sticky, irritable things. Stifling.

Sometimes he would awake, suddenly, chased by a hurtling dream, only to sit up, naked, dripping in his own sweat, shivering – a little. He would toss the flimsy sheets aside to find nothing beside him. There was nobody else there. Just a few wrinkles. Where she had lied. It always took a few long, painful moments to realise that she'd gone.

He tried to do something about it.

He would stay up, glaring from a rigid armchair perched in the corner, watching her, the muscles in her neck, her chest, tense and release as her breath tickled her throat. He'd blink. And she'd go. He never saw her leave, never saw her disappear – she just went. No puff of smoke. No magic flashing. Nothing.

Sometimes he wondered if he'd fabricated it all. Sometimes he'd wonder if she was ever there at all.

* * *

><p>"<em>Aodhan?" asked Lionel.<em>

"_Ye'?" _

_Lionel frowned. Aodhan had dropped his rag-tag western isle accent long before the two men had met, yet he still insisted on throwing the odd anachronism into his perfectly sound speech. It was too casual, too lackadaisical for his taste. A tad deliberate, perhaps. Lionel was in no urgency to complain, however – far more pressing matters were at hand. A storm was brewing far on the horizon. One could see it in the clouds above, thick and jagged, curly coals. Workmen were dashing about, heavy sails in their hands, attempting to prepare for the battering winds beyond. The old Captain, a snarling caricature of a greying, weathered seaman as there ever was, was throwing coarse orders over the swooping tides._

"_We should head under deck, Aodhan. It's unwise to linger – even if the storm turns out to be little more than a pattering of rain."_

_Aodhan did not answer. He was without his thick, tailored travelling coat, his sleeves rolled up, letting the water hiss and spit against his naked forearms. In the past weeks, his hair had grown unruly, his complexion dour. Half-mad, wondered Lionel, as usual; he had known Aodhan too long to think much of it, aside from casual concern._

"_Aodhan – "_

"_I'm beginning to wonder why I'm here," Aodhan cut in. "I'm beginning to wonder why on earth we came here at all –"_

_A wave shot upwards, crashing against the side of the ship._

"_You have impeccable timing as usual."_

"_I don't care what you think, Lionel, I never did much. Better said before we're dead. I just – god – I–"_

_Lionel took the arm of his friend, before he could be needlessly dramatic, and pulled him beneath the deck. The other passengers – few there were, so few dared to take this route – huddled in the shade. They sat in silence. A few soft groans could be heard; a few spare mutters were passed across. _

_An hour passed beneath the swaying deck, before Aodhan tried to elaborate. _

"_I'm still thinking about The Pirate Lord."_

"_When are you not?"_

"_But – "_

"_But?"_

"_But," stressed Aodhan. "I'm thinking of the faerie more."_

_The faerie. The slightly, flighty, little elfin creature, winged and wicked. The creature that Aodhan had seen ten years before, that had started this daft, hopeless quest – to kill Murtagh, the Pirate Lord! To take his treasure, to take his hoard! To free the faerie kingdom once and for all! – the creature that Lionel later saw with his own eyes. That poor, pathetic, snivelling creature... god, it was a travesty, what the pirates had done. Even thinking about it – thinking about it made it certain this insanity was truly right._

"_Is this going to help her?" Aodhan asked._

"_Sorry – what?"_

"_This... quest, of ours. Is it really going to benefit her, directly? Is it – "_

"_You're having doubts now – so close to the goal?" asked Lionel, incredulously._

"_Well–"_

"_You're positively absurd."_

_A silence. _

"_I refuse to kill in vain. I refuse to hurt what doesn't need to be hurt. The faeries would have been massacred irregardless of the pirates existence, wouldn't have they?"_

"_I can't honestly believe you're actually saying this."_

"_I can't believe myself either, Lionel. It's all so very ridiculous, isn't it?"_

The passage cut out suddenly. A large annotation was written beneath this in a flowing scribble-script.

_Cut from the original edition; considered too adult and too complex in terms of theme and language. Inserted as appendix in short-lived second edition. Copies burnt afterwards. Last remaining record (?) likely of section. _

It wasn't Murtagh's handwriting.

* * *

><p>One day he came with his collar soaked in five-year old whiskey; he stabbed the door open, trawled through the floor, his hair swept up in black, sweat-soaked tangles, his jerkin half-undone – only by halves – his fingernails smudged with red lines; his boots were torn off with a terrific shriek, clock hands shaking as they tick-tick-tick-ticked and a drowsy hour hand swung around – sun was too bright it was too goddamned early and he hadn't had enough goddamned sleep to be able tell times apart – goddamned motherfucking bloody shitty motherfucking – and then he stumbled into the pricey corner of a table; it fucking fucking fucking hurt.<p>

Arya watched this spectacle without watching at all.

"Bitch."

The elf did not move. Her richly painted marble-glossed eyes did not even blink.

"You're not even going to say anything. Bitch."

He staggered towards her, his face contorted into pain.

Slap.

He whacked her clean across the face. Hard. Fast. Some blood spilt – splattered the wall, teardrops of fine wine.

"Say something!"

Slap.

She fell to the floor. No tears wasted.

"Damn it!" he screamed. "Damn it!"

She didn't fight back. She didn't even move. She didn't even care, he bet, he always won his bets – was she laughing? Or was she crying out storms of misery? Was she letting out cold, metallic, hard pearls of laughter? At him? Was he a joke? He was a joke – A huge, laudable – oh god he had just hit her he had just hit her he had just hit her he had just hit her he had just

He had just hit her.

_I'm not my father I'm not my father please believe me I'm not actually my father I'm just playing dress up don't you like dress up I can play dress up I'm good at it pretending because nothing is real really don't you think why be existential when you can pretend but really I'm not my father I would say I'm actually me I don't know what I am I don't know I don't know I don't_

He had just hit her.

She wasn't moving.

"Say something!" he roared.

The joke was on him.

"Say something! _Please_!"

Ha. Ha, Ha.

_Is this what love feels like?_ (He might have wistfully pondered, half-amusedly, maybe as a snarky quip at the concept of such thing as 'irrational feelings' – if he was sober.)

Her shoulders crumpled as his hand – tentative – reached at her. She didn't want to be pulled up. (She would do so in her own time) Not by him. The monster, he might have said, jokingly. Ha. Ha, Ha. Ha Ha, Ha. Wasn't it amusing?

Wasn't it?

* * *

><p>"Malena–"<p>

"Yes?" she responded stiffly.

Upwards, along the fingerless banister, gold-leaved footsteps and tricklings of wine, a floating piece of autumn, bushes thick with cold berries and dusty leaves, danced in the sky. A red-bricked wishing well was perched on this little island, a heart – bottomless; it stretched to the centre of the earth – swollen with creamy liquid, the residue of fallen stars, in which skylit dreams could be seen. It was one of many places – empty balconies, twisting palaces, flat pancake lakes, tin-roofed sheds under the earth, cottages in forgotten woods, all tinged with the colours of falling leaves – that they, her and her actor, gold-masked and grinning, had created together.

"There's – there's something on your cheek. Look here."

He snapped his fingers, and a jet of the well's magical milk jumped upwards, and spread out into a shimmering mirror across the well.

"Can you see it?" he asked, smiling.

There was something – awkward – bashful – about his tone tonight. It was 'in character', she assumed, with the gold-clasped scarlet uniform of a soldier – a farcical costume she'd seen before – and whilst the relentless, burgeoning eccentricity of his constant winks, blinks, and dancing hands (he could live his life headless with those fluttering hands; they spoke for him) was still there... it was more subdued. Calmer, perhaps.

"No," she said, softly. "I can't."

"I don't believe you."

He was right to. In the enchanted mirror, cast upon the air, lay the beguiling reflection of a poised maiden... an elfin princess. She turned her head. An angry, red gash had struck her across the left cheek, and little black markings that seemed to spin around it, far too familiar... she looked down at the back of her left hand. No. Nothing. Why had she looked at it, again?

"Where did you get it?" the actor asked. He sounded... concerned.

She frowned.

"I... I don't know. I don't honestly know. I can't recall, ever... it's _almost_ as if it appeared by–"

"Magic." The actor said, laughing heartily, now. "How feeble."

* * *

><p>He tired of it eventually. So he flew.<p>

On the back of a vast, silent beast, he winged the spilling horizon, fresh with thick meadows ripe and coloured; rolling across rosy apple orchards, sun-drenched wheat fields spun of gold, wandering footpaths criss-crossing themselves; a nervous, tingling stream; across winding country lanes that meandered to thatched villages and quaint markets under red-and-white-striped stalls and the mellow hum of a ringing bell along winding avenues and squealing children pointing to the sky – _look_. Tousled hair sheared short, in bunches, bobbing up and down, low-lying puffs of breakaway cloud, bleating, in stiff skirts flayed outwards and holed tunics, with buckets and spades and forks, bleating, with gnarled sticks and stones and hearts bones, bleating; – _look._

Because look – not touch. Because see – not have. Because pretend – not be. Simple as simple is. Kid logic. Simple. And undeniably oxy_moronic_.

He flew away – he wafted on a circumstantial breeze, away from delicately-painted pastorals, smooth-rugged edges, away from roaming plains, away heavy forests, shading with the falling sky, away from the caws of blackbirds and crows of bleeding animals. He flew above shallow, noiseless lakes, that shone like magic mirrors. The wind shook with cold; mist began to simmer across the plains. The crags and claws-tips of mountains pierced the distance – of what little could be seen through the blackening fog. The sun collided into the horizon, cracking into rivulets of violent purple, bloodshot red.

And in the midst of wisps of hot charcoal, there between the fragments, were a thousand thousand burning stars. Gleaming.

Murtagh slammed into the horizon.

* * *

><p>"I just heard–"<p>

A clatter of noise could be heard outside the thin canopy. Low-key chatter, a crackling fire, shivers in the cold – nothing particularly indicative, or exciting, for that matter. No vast, rumbling crowds. No sword swiping, no duels, swinging about in the corner, steel glittering in the midday sun. No wild fanfares, draped in coloured flags. It was the lack of noise – the weary sighs withheld. The outcries stripped down to disgruntled mumbling. That was the telling thing.

"I just heard – Milady?"

The tired words rose up into a question mark. Nasuada glanced up from her lace-sleeved fingernails, rusting with blood, and spied her attention on the worn, lifeless face of the man kneeling in the dirt in front of her.

"No need for such antagonism, Stronghammer."

A bare-faced lie.

Roran winced. No one had called him that in months. The name made him slightly sick at the back of his throat. She knew it did – it was why she said it – that was _his lady_.

"I wasn't–"

He caught the sentence before it could be slewed out through gritted teeth.

"Good."

A hoarse silence. Nasuada slumped back into the chair. The heavy-backed, makeshift oakwood throne, gilded with rich detail – why had she brought it? It was such a cumbersome, such a irksome thing to drag around, pile into a cart and shunt it about several thousand miles of sun-burnt wilderness, before – carefully – unpacking it again. Just for her haughty little ass. Well, she thought – one had to be impractical now and again, didn't one? Life was so tiresome without its guilty pleasures. So very tiresome.

Her army was being submerged by an avalanche of roaring blood, her best commanders had their throats ripped out, their corpses tied on the back of mad horses, half her infantry units wiped out with a plume of a dragon's flame, her advancement was now in negative and they were ten miles off being ambushed, caught, and surrounded at a dreary little port on the western coastline.

She was honestly fed up. Half-mad, too – but one didn't mention that in public. No – no – that would be impossible.

Roran too. It had been three months, but looked closer to thirteen years. His features were now dragged down – like hers – with pained exhaustion. Black Rings. Stone Skin. Broken wrinkles. A stern frown. Not since his wife had died. Not since his village had died.

She did wonder why he hadn't thrown himself off a cliff yet.

(Actually, she knew exactly why. It was the same reason she hadn't.)

"Milady," he said, forcefully.

"Ah, you need something? Well, I'm a very busy woman, don't prattle with me."

The last sentence was a bare-faced bare-backed bare-assed lie.

"Milady, I've caught wind of the rumours–"

"You should pay no heed to rumours, Stronghammer–"

"Rumours of your imminent departure. Rumours of your surrender–"

_It's not surrender. It's not surrender. I'm still going to die. _

"Roran, your cousin is gone," Nasuada assured. "He went months ago. You hold no authority over what I do–"

"How _could_ you? How could – "

"Excuse me?"

_I'm still going to die._

"– how could you abandon something that you've spent every single waking moment working for, drilling for, pushing for, and pushed _others_ into it for, something which you've inspired people with –"

_I'm going to be submerged into the darkness the void the hole the abyss and I'm never coming back I'm never coming back you'll never touch me again never hear me never want never _

"Roran–"

"How _could_ you leave it all behind? How _could_ you – "

_How can I?_

"Roran–"

_Because I'm afraid of being shot._

"This is all we ever dreamed of, all we ever hoped of, all we ever wanted – war war war and more war – and you're sick of it? And you're _sick_ of it already? Already? You find it disgusting? Find _us_ disgusting – we're too much for you, us commoner soldiers, us farm folk with our flaming pitchforks, _milady?_ Distressing, maybe? Oh dear. Too much? Too much for milady – please–"

She gripped his shoulder. One of them was shaking. Maybe both of them.

"I think that's enough speculation over rumour, Stronghammer."

"Well, I don't. Milday–"

Nasuada glared. He glared back. He was twice her size; with a squashed fist, he could easily clutch her neck, and with his little finger, meticulously, _rip_ it off its base –

But he didn't.

Shaking his head, he turned around and left. She turned back to her desk. God – she could _kill_ for a glass of dry red right now. Shame she hadn't had any in months.

"I'm going to die," she murmured aloud, chuckling quietly. She pulled her, thin, needle-like fingers, black and coarse, through her mad curls, before they tugged at the strain of pearls looped around her neck. _I'm going to die._

She tossed them to the floor, and screamed as they smashed.

Screamed.  
><em>Screamed.<em>

No one paid any notice.

* * *

><p>The forked branches rose above, spiking into silver-veined leaves, which whistled at the breeze's bells, at the crying rain. Crumpled roots snagged the floor; bark-bitten, and clumps of melted moss. Fireflies danced across sticky ponds; dotting up and down, low buzzing; the shade weaved in and out of the clearings, drawing frosted spider-webs for them. Marked on a map, a few dotted 'x's and 'whys?' huddled in the North at this spot, this slight blemish; on foot, those paper sheaves seemed limp and lifeless, and would slip dreamlessly from the sick fingers of a wandering soul.<p>

And above, the stars were gleaming.

Nothing followed Murtagh; nothing. Not even a shadow. For with such a dire, wretched face, contorted with the complexities of a lost love, of a won war, and an empty existence, who would need a shadow?

And all above, those starry-eyed lights would gleam madly.

"God damn you!"

In a trampled shirt, loose, rolled up to the arms, and hair long and tangled and wild, walked a boy in the shape of a man.

"I don't get it – I just don't–"

He traipsed through the churchyard yews and edelweiss, uprooted onto these lonely plains. Trailing, was the smell of burning smoke and liquor ghosts and naked feet running in the mud.

Under those glitzy stars, fixed and hot and burning, he walked to nowhere. In his right hand, his bible, his Qur'an – the ruffled copy of _The Pirate Lord._ In his left hand, a gem, a family heirloom, a magical artefact, that seemed to glint psychotically in amongst those And retching at the back of his throat, measly words, a desperate prayer:-

_Star light, star bright,_

_The first star I see tonight;_

_I wish I may, I wish I might,_

_Have the wish I wish tonight._

It was something his father had once told him.

"I wish..."

Maybe. Perhaps.

He couldn't remember.

"I wish..."

The stars did nothing.

He screamed. He threw everything to the floor. He threw his head in his hands and his hands to the ground. And knelt.

What was the point – "What is the _point?_" – of wishes when the faerie tales always ended unhappily? What was the point of fate when it was only ever tragic? What was the point of being given power if it was only ever used for ill? Because magic – because fate – when had that ever done _anything_? When had that ever been good? When had that ever - oh god, the question was so naive - made him, well, _happy_?

"I didn't deserve this."

He was a monster. He was an animal. He was his father.

"I know – I know – _I know_!"

'Fate' was decided for him. Fate was writ not in the gleaming stars, those mocking fairy-lights – but in blood. Inheritance was his 'fate'. He looked like his father, he sounded like his father, he acted like his father. So why bother? So why bother at all, attempting to be something different? Because when it came down to it, he always knew, he knew that he would spend the next decade, next century, next millennia as an elaborate puppet, fighting off elaborate and staged rebellions in turn, drinking elaborately, smoking elaborately, theatrically fucking several different men and women in the endless escape of a grandiloquent, a pretentiously-trimmed lifestyle lacking in life, and the crippling emptiness that seemed to permeate through every single waking second: - _my life is pointless, my life is incomplete, my life is lacking. _

And little would change. Because – _because_ – he had _tried_ to change – he had _tried_ to rebel – he had tried to run – he had tried to fight – he had tried to love – he had tried to even work on the inside, mobilise troops, organise frontiers, change tactics, move the war forwards – and it had worked – it was working – he was winning the war – and he would use that to solidify his political power and acquire influence – he was going to change conditions, as soon as it was over, reform the court, the acquittal system, standardise laws and the federal state and localised guilds, tax progressively, subsidise capital and encourage innovation, increase literacy through education sponsorship – he had power, and he was going to use it – he was going to use it for _good_ –

But these dreams never seemed to materialise. Each time, and every time, he reached for the nib of his quill, for a bottle of ink, for a slab of parchment, to decree the beginning of his plans, his measures, his bourgeoning ideas, the fruition of a lifetime's philosophy reading stirred into ripening fruits, summer's hefty bounty, ready to be picked, washed, sliced, diced, fried, and served into one – just one – one, simple, cohesive, thorough, fully-formed document –

And his quill would slip from his hand. Dead books never made sprawling forests.

And it all just seemed so desolate and he couldn't understand why.

It all just seemed so pointless and meaningless and numb and empty like a broken chasm that would well up inside repeatedly and repeatedly and however much he covered it with other people's barely witty quips and other people's insightful remarks and hefty reading lists and unwelcoming glares and pretending he was a ruthless and jaded and actually being ruthless and jaded and everything that being an adult supposedly entailed. The chasm wouldn't go away it'd keep ripping him into pieces and everything into pieces and nothing seemed to be of value anymore nothing ever seemed to be of value he wished he could turn back the clock –

And then Arya came back. And then he was too concerned with her ever to care again.

Cycles would come and go, the wind would rise and fall, and their names, mere oscillations, mother, mentor, brother, lover, softly spoken whispers, that lingered not for more than a second; really, those dreams of love, of life, of purpose – really, they did not exist at all. And where did that leave him?

Sick and lonely.

Murtagh then remembered the exact reason why he was roaming across the wilderness. He wanted to kill himself. He wanted to crush himself repeatedly and burn himself twice over. God knows he deserved it.

But destiny called. And as with his every dream, it would remain forever incomplete. There was no point resisting the Cycle of Inheritance.

"Why am I crying?"

Maybe he was mourning something. It wouldn't be the first time.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I'm currently pre-occupied with exams and picking universities. That, and exploring funk, funk-rock, jazz-funk, and funk-metal. Hence slowing rate of writing. I have the next chapter half-written up. To be honest, I'm being plagued by a second idea - an original novel idea - which is really hampering my progress.

It's a depressing chapter, but I never promised a happy story.

What else? I read American Pyscho yesterday. Devoured it in two days. Favourite book ever, officially. It's so cleverly written - although brutal, so don't read on a full stomach. And I finally got round to reading Anthony Kiedis' autobiography. Also read it in two days. How the fuck someone can take in that much heroin and still be alive I have no fucking idea. But I can't ever listen to Gang of Four seriously again after the scenes with Andy Gill XD. Currently, with music, listening to a lot of late-era Miles Davis. Tribute to Jack Johnson is an excellent album that I can't recommend enough.


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